Starvation 3: As You Like It
by Penelope Wendy Bing
Summary: As the third anniversary of the rebels' defeat dawns, twenty-four children prepare to fight to the death. And this time, you decide whom.
1. The Golden Girl

**A/N**- Here's the first reaping. And yes, I will be doing all of them. Since I'm writing other people's characters, I think it's important to give them at least a little time in the spotlight before they're brutally slaughtered.

This character is brought to you by Little Miss Dancerina. The proofreading is brought to you by mt fabulous beta, Laeve!

And by the way- I don't own _The Hunger Games. _If I did, _Mockingjay _would have been a bit different. But now is not the time to rant. Now is the time for Starvation 3. I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

I've always been the golden girl. And you know what? It's still not enough.

Mother's hands run through my hair. She spent her time brushing it out. "I think we can leave it down, don't you, Amy?" my mother asks.

I look in the mirror. I look pretty much the same as I always do, to me anyway. Wavy blond hair, long nose, full lips, blue eyes that are really my only defining feature. My hair is nice, but almost everyone in District 1 is blond. Sometimes I wonder if we were genetically engineered or something else strange. We're certainly a very blond bunch.

"I guess so, Mama," I say. I think my hair looks a little wild, to be honest; but mother seems to approve of it, and all of her teasing and pulling on my hair is not something I'm eager to repeat for prettier bangs. My mother gives my hair one last fluffing and pulls one strand over my shoulder. "Time for the reaping, dear," she says. I smile faintly, digging my fingernails into my blue dress. I stand and pull my favorite bracelet from my jewelry box.

"Oh, not _that_ one, Amy," my mother coos. "It will look tacky with the gold earrings."

"Then I can wear a silver pair instead. Please, mama?" I ask. She chews her lip. I know she thinks gold is better, because it signifies being the best; but I hope that today of all days my mother will budge on something like regulating my choice in jewelry. She doesn't like the Hunger Games any more than I do. While my father may approve heartily, my mother and I watch only in quiet revulsion.

"Alright," she finally relents. "I mean, it _is _pretty and all…"

"Thank you," I say, kissing her on the cheek and turning to go downstairs. I put on the bracelet as I walk, fumbling with the clasp while trying not to fall down the stairs and break my neck.

Of all the proof that my family is affluent, the fact that we actually have a two-story house is probably the most glaring. While very few of District 1's citizens live in the ever-popular cement hovels that pass as housing in most of the Districts, very few people have houses like ours. Which is only fitting, since Reinhart is such a prominent name, I suppose.

I wobble a little as my heels sink into the thick carpet. I can hear my mother cleaning up after us upstairs, humming an unrecognizable tune. I steady myself on the polished banister with my bracelet finally hanging on my left wrist, diamonds glinting aloofly around the amethyst. I could hardly believe it when Glitz and Glamour gave it to me. I mean, something like this is not an unheard-of gift in District 1, but you're more likely to get it from a family member on some very special occasion like a wedding. My friends must have saved up to give it too me, which made me feel bad because I didn't have diamonds bracelets to give to _them. _My parents would never approve of something like that, best friends or not.

I hear footsteps pounding down after me. Definitely not my mom; she's a little too timid to make that much noise.

"Thyssa!" Topaz squeals. Her arms go around my neck, almost tripping me again. I laugh, steadying myself.

"Jeeze, Topsy! Let me get down the stairs first," I laugh. She smiles sheepishly, letting go of my neck. I take her hand and she smiles brightly. She may be twelve, but doesn't act it. The world is all good and beautiful in her eyes. I'm really afraid how she'll take it when she's finally forced to face the truth.

As we finally step off the stairs Topsy throws her arms around my neck. I laugh. "Just couldn't wait, could ya, kiddo?" I hug her back and take her hand, leading her into the dining room.

"Good morning, girls," my father rumbles. I smile faintly. My father has a different air about him. He's not afraid like me, trying really hard to act normal like my mother, or joyfully oblivious like Topaz. He knows exactly what's going on, and he loves it.

Topaz gives him a kiss on the cheek before scooping an apple out of the bowl. Two strands of her blond hair have been tied back. Her eyes are the same blue as mine. Mother says she looks just like I did when I was her age. Judging from the old pictures we have, she's not far off. She rinses the apple off. I've always been a little surprised people in the lower Districts don't have indoor plumbing, or at least a lot of them don't. I'd never paid much attention to them until the rebellion. Even before the borders were closed, but the small parts of the Districts that have been shown in the Final Eight interviews and all have been pretty much destitute.

"Still hungry, even after that nice breakfast you mother cooked up?" he teases her. "You aren't going to fit into your reaping dress for much longer at this rate. "Topsy pouts, but sinks her teeth into the apple anyway. He laughs, "That's alright. It'll keep your strength up if you're reaped today. Topsy's eyes widen.

"Father!" I say. Even he should know joking around to a twelve-year-old about being sent to their death isn't appropriate for a day it could actually happen.

"Oh, shush, Amethyst," my father dismisses me. "This District _needs _kids like you to represent it! I mean, look at the slummies we've been getting for the last two years!" I stiffen. "Slummies." I mean, upper-class people call the poorer resident of District 1 that all the time, but I've never liked hearing it.

"Absolutely ridiculous. That boy last year at least had some fight in him! But the girl- pah! Fighting against her own district partner to protect that District Five boy. Of all the kids that have been reaped so far… And did you hear their names? Krenk. Wesley. _Baylyn. _Those aren't good District One names. You'd think their parents would have at least chosen respectable names for them!" he exclaims, banging his fist against the coffee table. "But you know how it is. Only the richer people bother giving their children luxurious names. A pity. Amethyst. Topaz. Now _those _are good names."

I don't say anything. I like my name, but I don't agree with the rest of what he's saying. Thankfully it's not a struggle to bite back my arguments. I've been doing it for almost as long as I could talk. It's ingrained into my brain.

"If you or Topaz were reaped, you'd represent our District well. No crying. No pointless self-sacrifice. My girls would win! I wish you could, just to show all those slummies what District One is _really _made of. But I'm talking too much! Listen to me go on. How was your reaping morning, Amethyst?" he asks, picking up his coffee with a bright smile. I shrug.

"Oh, I don't know. It was pretty normal," I say.

It _had _been pretty normal. My mother had woken me up by tickling me the way she had for years. I always groaned that I was too old to be woken up like that, but I didn't mean it. Mother knew, so she kept doing it. It was our little morning ritual. After groaning and complaining for a few minutes, I was up and dressed in my going-out clothes. My mother didn't want me walking around town in my nice dress; she was afraid I would get it dirty. In her defense, she was probably right. It had been raining lately and it was muddy.

"Where are you going?" Mother asks me, on her way to wake up Topaz.

"Glitz and Glamour wanted to meet up for coffee and sweets beforehand," I say. My mother smiles.

"Alright. But you only have an hour. Make sure to get back in time!"

Thanks, I will," I say, waving and dashing out the door. The street is wet and I make a note to myself not to cut across the grass. I hate having wet feet. The houses slide by, a mass of small, similar-looking mansions. This is the rich part of town. The _really _rich part of town. Whenever something in the Capitol was inlaid with gold leaf, or encrusted with beautifully cut gems, or adorned with beautiful porcelain or statues, chances are somebody on this block was at the head of the company that had supplied it.

"Amsy!" Glamour waves vigorously from her front door. She bounds down the steps, orange skirts bouncing around her knees. I'm she probably fought with her mother for the right to wear a shorter skirt to the reaping. Looks like she lost.

"Amethyst, I was just going to start walking down to your house and- what on earth are you wearing?" she asks, a frown suddenly spreading across her face at my plain gray pants and loose blouse.

"What do you mean?" I ask. "You didn't think I was going to wear my _reaping _clothes to get coffee, did you? What if I spill?" I ask. Glamour, who is clearly decked out in her reaping dress, opens her mouth to retort and then frowns again.

Before either of us has to say anything more, Glitz glides down the stairs. Next to her sister's buoyant energy and brightly colored dress, her quiet elegance and white gown might have faded into the background to someone who'd never heard of her before. But those who knew _of _Glitz knew to mind their manners around her. For those who really knew her… well, that was pretty much limited to her family, and me.

"Morning, Amsy," she says breezily, giving me a light socialite's kiss on each cheek. I smile.

"Morning, Glitz. Ready to go?" I ask. She smoothes her skirt and nods elegantly, saying nothing. Glitz doesn't always talk, but when she does those outside of our tight social circle shut up and listen. Only Glamour and I are free to carry on a conversation without prior consent. The "plebeians" as she calls them are usually more worried about offending the queen bee than anything else, but the two of us chat happily as we walk, not worrying about her approving of what we say. She might act nasty, but Glitz is really more of a softie than she lets on. And she also isn't quite as much of a queen bee as others might perceive. To the casual onlooker, Glitz is in charge, totally and completely. But within our little triangle, all of us know it's me. I'm much better glue for our friendship, without Glitz's distant behavior and hard temper. While I'm content to let her boss us around sometimes, I'm at the top. I always have been.

Not that that's enough for my father. I frown as I think. He pushes me for excellence even harder than my mother does. It isn't good enough for him that I'm at the top of my class, by far the star of the track team, and probably the most popular girl at school. He wasn't even happy I'd managed to turn out pretty, something I had little to no control over. No, my father somehow expected more than everything from me. Sometimes I wonder if he really ever means it when he says he was proud of me. It makes me mad, but… I _want _him to be proud of me. So, so much. It would mean I'd finally done it. I could finally stop. It would mean that I didn't have to look down at everything that made me _me_ as insufficient. I want to be able to hear someone compliment me without feeling a little sick to my stomach and ashamed. I want to love the life I know that I'm lucky to have.

"Amsy?" Glamour asks, pausing. She looks a little annoyed, so I assume she'd been sharing her latest piece of gossip and looked to me for a reaction only to find me zoned out, mind far away.

"Sorry. I'm back," I chuckle apologetically. Glamour looks me over with a critical expression, apparently deciding whether or not she'll declare the apology sufficient. I know she will, of course. The temptation to spill her news was always too much for Glamour.

"Alright, fine. I heard that February Brannock and Mars Alomann are _engaged_. Can you believe that? She's sixteen and he's seventeen and they're _engaged _already!"

My eyebrows shoot up. As shallow as Glamour might be, she does root out some pretty interesting gossip and she is just too much fun to have around. When she takes so much pride in her work, it's hard not to show interest.

"That's really strange," I muse. "I didn't know they were that serious."

"I don't think they are," Glamour goes on. I mean, her father doesn't like him, and you know February. She's quite the daddy's girl. I really doubt she's going to marry someone he doesn't like. Even if he does have really pretty eyes…" Her eyes start to drift out of focus, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. "Have you noticed how his left eye is a different shade of blue than the right one?"

"Well, we seem to have found out who Glammy's boy of the week is," Glitz says loftily. Glamour blushes.

"Ugh! I hate you guys!"

We laugh. Even Glitz cracks a smile. After that the icy exterior is gone, we tease each other the whole way. She's really not so aloof once you get her smiling.

We buy some coffee from a young girl sitting with her mother. They're just sitting outside with their pot, under their little cloth canopy. A small group of other vendors surrounds them, hawking fresh fruit that was probably smuggled in from District 11, and dyed scarves, and herbs they might have grown in their gardens. Some people can eke out a living just selling trinkets to the upper class.

The woman pours us mugs of coffee and we add in sugar and milk from the jars she has with her. I can see her calculating carefully. It's a huge luxury for someone like her to use sugar, so she'll be charging us a lot. Probably even more than the sugar is worth, but none of us complains. She makes the best coffee.

One or two other people make a purchase as we stand and chat. When we're done, we return the chipped mugs and drop some money into her daughter's hand. The little girl looks up at us, smiling widely. No matter how many times finely dressed upper-class women stop by, she still can't stop staring at our dresses like we walked out of a fairytale. It makes me a little uncomfortable, to be honest, which is another benefit of not having put my reaping dress on yet.

"I need to be heading back," I say. Glam whines about it a little, but we turn back. I don't blame her. It's lovely out here, with the sun shining down from the cloudless sky. I'd rather just wander around District 1 too, but we have a reaping to attend.

"Thyssa? I'm nervous," Topaz whispers as we walk hand-in-hand to the reaping. I smile.

"Don't be, Topsy. You won't be taken," I say. "If they try, I'll beat 'em all up with my own two hands. I promise."

She smiles. The idea of me beating up anyone, much less a crowd of armed Peacekeepers, is a little ridiculous. It's a funny enough picture to make Topsy smile, even in the face of her first-reaping nerves. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and fall silent, listening to my father and mother talk ahead of us.

"I hope we have a winner this year. A _proper _winner. One from the best part of District 1, one that we can be proud of!"

I sigh. This again. Mother is resigned, too. There's going to be no talking to my father about anything else until the Games are over.

Before long, we arrive at the square. I pat Topsy on the shoulder and she drifts into her section of the square. I myself enter the section for seventeen-year-olds; shoving my way as politely as possible to where Glitz and Glam are surrounded by our school friends. Glitz is telling some story and doesn't even acknowledge my arrival, but Glam gives me a quick hug.

Suddenly feedback screeches from the speakers. It's too much for one of the twelve-year-olds in front, and she faints. It's certainly put the rest of us on edge, too. Even in our huddle of rich kids with next to no chance of being chosen, the microphone screech has left us visibly unsettled.

"Sorry, sorry," the young mayor chuckles. "Well, I certainly have all your attention now, don't I? A- alright. Let's all rise for the anthem."

Which is a stupid thing to say, because we're all standing already. Some of us sing along nervously as it plays, but I remain silent.

_It's so unlikely that you will be chosen, Amethyst. It's even less like that Topaz will be drawn. I mean, there are so many poor kids. Their population is so much bigger, the odds are absolutely for you and all of your friends._

Besides, I promised Topaz she would be fine. I can't make a liar out of myself, can I?

"-and may it be the very best Hunger Games _ever_!" squeals our escort. She's given her name, but I couldn't make it out through the high pitch and thick Capitol accent. Her name really isn't so important, anyway. I mean, it's not like she's-

"Amethyst Reinhart."

A lead weight slams into my stomach. I hear someone shriek, probably Topsy or my mother, and the eyes of every child in the District turn to look at me. It's not real until I meet their eyes, full of horror. It's not really until I see tears collecting in Glamour's eyes. It's not real until Glam, always the one thinking her way through things, whispers hoarsely that I need to go.

I take one stumbling step forward. Someone's hand supports me as I try to piece my mind back together.

This shouldn't be happening. I promised Topsy that nothing like this would happen. Which I guess is another cruel little lesson for me: don't make promises you don't have the power to keep.

_Oh, Topaz…_

I can't promise her to come back. I realize that. I won't break another vow to my little sister. But one promise I can keep, that I can start keeping right now, is that I won't give up. That I will keep trying. Yes, I'll keep trying. I swallow the urge to vomit and straighten my back, standing tall. I feel my legs shake as I walk toward the stage, but I steel myself and make it without falling over or breaking into tears, which isn't too bad in my opinion.

"Thank you, Miss Reinhart! Now for the boys!" the escort coos. Even with my head spinning, desperately trying to act strong for Topaz, I can find in myself to hate her as she smiles. How can they justify this? Can the Capitol really excuse the killing of children from a District that never even rebelled? It's nothing short of disgusting, but there isn't a thing that I can do about it.

"And it looks like it's… Lance Brahmier!"

My mind snaps to attention. _Lance? _I know him. We're not particularly close, but all of the town kids are at least loose friends. Which is what shocks me. Not just one rich kid, but two, and in the same year.

Lance makes his way to the stage. Like me, he's desperately working to compose himself. I see his fists clench at his sides, his jaw working. He looks more angry than shocked, though. And why shouldn't he be? He knows just as well as I do that this is horribly unfair.

"Introducing our District 1 contestants, Lance Brahmier and Amethyst Reinhart!" she exclaims. Apparently, the escort is oblivious to my disgust and Lance's hatred, because she looks thrilled to no end.

And just like that, it's over. The cameras are packed away. A Peacekeeper mounts the stage, taking my elbow and leading me off the stage. Another walks behind Lance. It's not far to the Justice Building; and even in a big, wealthy District like District 1, it's not much of a walk to the waiting rooms.

Almost as soon as I'm seated, Glitz and Glamour are let in. I can just picture Glitz ordering the Peacekeeper guards to let them in _right now_, or would he rather be reported to the Head Peacekeeper? I don't blame him for sending them in before my other friends and family. Glitz can be _terrifying _when you try to stand in between her and something she wants.

Glamour manages to hold it together for about half a second before she burst into tears. She flings herself at me where I sit, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. She shakes and keens, rocking back and forth ever so slightly, but I can't understand a word she's saying. Glitz waits with more composure until I've mostly adjusted to Glamour's hysterics. She sits down next to me and wraps one of my hands in both of hers and rests her forehead on our combined fists, clearly fighting to remain in control of herself.

"You're going to have to do it," she says bluntly. "You'll have to kill. If you don't do it, then someone else will. There's no point in pussyfooting around it. Just get it over with and come home, please."

I think through her words very slowly, trying to process them without losing control of myself. "I will… try my best, Glitz. I don't want to d- die, but I don't quite know if I will be able to… to…"

Glitz nods silently. She doesn't ask me for anything more. She knows I'll do the best I can. She pulls me against her, cradling me and her sister against her chest. I swallow hard. She feels so warm and strong, just like my mother always did when I was little and had a nightmare or tripped and skinned my knee. It's so tempting to cry, but I hold it back. Soon Glitz rises, lifts her wailing sister away from me and leaves. She says nothing more, just gives me one long look. The door clicks shut. I gasp once for breath before it begins to swing open for a second time.

Topaz's head peeks very slowly around the door, one big blue eye blinking uncertainly at me. The sight of me seems to stir something in her and she pushes it open the rest of the way and flies across the room. I catch her as she leaps into my arms, skirts flying, and back quivering with her cries. I bury my face in her hair, wrapping one arm around her head and neck and another around her back. I hardly even notice that my parents have entered for a moment or two. I finally look up and hold one arm out to my mother, who seems to be too shocked for tears and is just doing some strange hiccupping gasp instead. She crumples forward; Topaz, me my mother kneel on the floor as one.

"Oh, my baby! My poor baby," she murmurs, stroking my hair desperately, like it will somehow let her keep me if she can just touch me enough times. Topsy's fingers dig into the back of my dress, and I understand my mother's desperation. What if I never touch her again? I want to stock up now.

Slowly I look up, trying to keep my face totally blank. Any possibility of that is shattered when I see my father's smile.

His _smile_.

"This is wonderful! This is going to be the best thing that ever happened to this District, I just know it! You are exactly the sort of person we need to bring this District the glory and honor it deserves. I mean, look at you! You're strong, smart, beautiful… oh, Amethyst! I'm so glad it was you that was chosen," he exclaims, rubbing his hands together in excitement. Very, very slowly, I pull my arms away from my mother and sister and straighten up.

"I love you, Momma. I love you, Topaz. Now please, go."

My mother looks at me in confusion, but the Peacekeeper was listening for my low, quiet command and he marches in. He looks at Topaz and my mother and then back at me for confirmation, and I nod. He leads them out by their arms as they cry and call my name. Ever so slowly I turn my head to look at my father. He's still grinning.

"Father, stop it," I say through my teeth. He looks mildly annoyed at me.

"Amethyst! Don't use that tone with me. Now listen: you can't let any of those pieces of District scum beat you. If you-"

"No, you listen!" I hiss back. His look of annoyance turns to one of genuine confusion. "I am tired of you loving the Capitol more than you love me. I'm tired of biting my tongue and doing what you tell me to. I'm tired of feeling like nothing I do is ever good enough!"

"Amethyst," he protests. "You know I-"

"No, actually. I _don't _know," I shout. "If you cared about me at all, you'd be crying now. If you loved me, you wouldn't be here telling me not to embarrass _you _by being murdered! "

My father doesn't try to interject again. He looks a little bowled over, and I don't blame him. I know I've never looked at him with so much anger before. I've never _felt _so much anger before. Nothing has ever upset me so deeply as my father standing there and being delighted that I was being sent to my death.

"I am going to win this, _daddy dearest_, but you know what? I'm not winning it for you. I'm winning it for me. I'm winning it for Topaz, for Mother, for Glamour and Glitz. And when I came home and you try to treat me as your daughter again, I will spit in your eye and laugh," I growl. I take a step towards him and he backs away. "Now get out. _Get out!_" I shriek, pointing one claw of a finger towards the door. My father almost trips over himself as he turns and flees.

The Peacekeeper begins to open the door to let in another visitor or several, but I slam my weight against it. "No!" I scream. "No more visitors!" I'll regret not saying goodbye to the rest of my friends, I'm sure, but right now I'm too angry to care.

My desire to cry is all but disappeared; and when someone comes in to fetch me to the train, I stride out of the room with my head held high. I will not give in. I will fight for this. And when I am finished, my father won't believe what he's been missing.

I have always been the golden girl. And you know what? It's still not enough. So, now I will become a victor.


	2. If I Were a Rich Man

**A/N**- This character is brought to you by Scriptum Haedus.

* * *

Most people take the day off from work to relax, either sleeping in or worrying away the morning with their friends. Not me. I need to be paid more than I need to sleep in, as nice as it might be. If any of us ever lets up, if we stop being able to pay the rent... shame for the whole family.

The Brahmier family used to be great. One of the wealthiest in District 1. Now, however, we hover on the edge of total bankruptcy. Every single person in my family works to keep the rent on our mansion paid. I wish Father would just sell the house and move out, but he's too proud. He'd rather fight to keep our head above the water, sacrificing things like new clothes, electricity, and sometimes food when we have them otherwise. Whatever else you can say about my family, we're determined folk.

I sit back in my chair, extending my legs. The jewelry store is right in the town square, so I'll be able to stay here until the reaping actually starts. I doubt anyone will come in on reaping day, so I'm planning to relax until it's time to head outside. Maybe I'll even take a nap. I lean back in my chair, knit my fingers over my stomach, and close my eyes. I don't bother to look at the clock, so I don't know how long I've been asleep when the door open with a jingle.

I shoot myself into a sitting position, but it would be hard to believe I hadn't been asleep. One of my eyes is still shut and I'm sure my hair is a mess.

"Sleeping on the job, Lance?" Ribbon asks, breezing by me to hang her coat up in the back. As the owner's daughter, she could get me in quite a lot of trouble if she wanted to. We're friends, so I don't think she will, but it never hurts to be safe when it's having dinner you're talking about.

"Y- yeah. I'm sorry," I say sheepishly. "I just figured that we probably wouldn't have much of anybody in, what with it being reaping day and all, and so I-"

"It's alright," she laughs. "I'm not going to rat you out. Provided, of course, that you buy me a coffee after the reaping."

I nod and do my best to smile. This isn't a bad compromise, but I don't really like spending my money on luxuries like coffee. At the same time I can't explain to Ribbon that I'm broke, because my dad would kill me.

Ribbon emerges from the back room in a pretty red dress. I assume it's for the reaping, because it's a little too fancy for middle class everyday wear. And despite the fact that her family is accepted in high society (her father is the mayor's twin brother) Ribbon's family is middle class financially. Which puts her above me, strangely enough.

"That new?" I ask, gesturing in the general direction of her dress. Ribbon looks pleased that I've noticed.

"Yes. My dress from last year didn't fit anymore," she says, twirling a little to show it off. The skirt spins as she does, blossoming out to about her knees. She flops down into the seat by the window, smiling.

"I like it," I say. Ribbon gives me another smile and looks out the window over her shoulder. We sit in silence for a minute or two, watching the one or two people who drift by the storefront. No customers come in.

"Don't you want to go home? Be with your sisters before the reaping? I can handle the shop on my own," she offers, chin resting on her hands. It's certainly true. There's no business at the moment, so Ribbon could do the tidying up and filing of orders from the Capitol on her own. But I shake my head. In reality, it's because I need the wage and my sisters are both off at _their _jobs anyway, but I don't tell her that.

"No thanks. I told your dad I'd come in today, and I'll see them later."

She looks at me a little skeptically. "You can't really be sure, can you? I mean, what if… something really bad happens?"

"I guess. But that's true of every moment. Any second one of them could keel over and there'd be nothing I could do about it. But I don't want to be around everybody I know all the time, just in case. You can't live your life thinking like that. The reaping's not really so different. We just know it's coming."

"I suppose," Ribbon says. "I never thought about it that way, but… it makes some sense. Still, I'd want to be with my friends or family…"

"Then why aren't you?" I ask.

"Oh, I already spent time with my family, and… well I don't have many friends besides you," she mutters, looking down. She's clearly embarrassed now, and I'm a bit uncomfortable, too. I'd noticed that Ribbon was more prone to bending over her sketch book than talking to other kids at school, but I had assumed she was just shy. Now I know that wasn't entirely the case.

"Oh. Well… I'm glad we're friends, anyway," I say. She smiles briefly and we stare at the floor or walls or whatever for a minute. Ribbon's brown hair falls down her shoulder and she shoves it back behind her ear. Which is the first time I really see how similar we are.

Ribbon and I have a foot in both worlds, but stand in neither. She's not really a rich kid. She may go to the parties and be the mayor's niece, but you can tell the other kids haven't quite let her in. As for me, they think I'm one of theirs, but I haven't quite let myself in. If I get too comfortable around them, I might let something slip.

She's not quite a poor kid. She's never been hungry, and her family owns a steady business. The less fortunate kids often resent the rich ones, even if the wealthy child in question hasn't done anything personally. I'm rejected by default. My last name's enough to do that for most of them. Yes, Ribbon and I hang in limbo. At the same time, I can't trust her anymore than I can the other rich kids and I don't think that will change any time soon.

"I'll… I'm going to get sweeping," Ribbon says I nod and lean back in my chair. She does as she says she will, and before long I'm thinking to the _scritch-scratch _of her broom on the floor.

I really don't expect Whisper will be taken today. There are a lot kids in District 1. At only fourteen, Whisper's name will be in only three times. At twenty, Magpie is no longer eligible. If anybody is going to be taken off to die today it will be me, and even my chances are less than harrowing. I meant what I said to Ribbon. I'm not afraid. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. Something - maybe the strain of keeping my family name from being dragged through the mud - seems to have toughened me, on the outside of course. I don't know what I would do if my sister was taken, but I choose not to dwell on that possibility unless it comes to pass.

The door jingles again, and I look up in surprise. I immediately sigh. It's February Brannock and Mars Alomann, the famously gooey couple. Of the thirty or so really wealthy kids in District 1, they're the ones I like the least. They're so wrapped up in each other that it's a wonder they can stand so much as two feet apart at any given time. Not that that happens very often.

Mars' arm is slung over February's shoulder. She's giggling as he whispers inane comments into her ear. She turns around, still mostly in the door and kisses him for several seconds. And then several more seconds. And then several more. Eventually Ribbon raises her eyebrow at me and I nod. I feel obliged to comment as well.

"Excuse me. If you aren't going to do any shopping, I'll have to ask that you take yourselves elsewhere," I say, trying to sound as polite as possible. February still looks annoyed, but Mars takes her hand and leads her to the front of the shop.

"Oh, we are. Well, I am. I want to buy something beautiful to give to my girl for good luck."

She titters again and buries her face in his shoulder, all traces of resentment towards me melted in the face of receiving jewelry. I resist the urge to sigh. Really, I have no idea what he sees in her. Or she in him, to a lesser extent. They spend next to no time really talking, as far as I can see. They're mostly kissing behind closed doors or running their fingers through each other's hair. But maybe it's a good thing that they've bonded. I think they might deserve each other.

"Let's see, sweetheart. What do you want?" he asks, she looks fawningly over the display case. I raise an eyebrow. Even most of the rich kids, in our fine houses with real wood floors and running water, don't have money to blow on stuff like the jewelry we keep in the front display case. There's a reason we want it to stay close to the shopkeeper on duty. It's incredibly expensive.

"Ooh, that pendant with the moon on it," she trills. My other eyebrow follows my first, tugging my face up into an expression of disbelief. Pure gold chain, with one huge carved diamond of a moon.

"Alright. We'll get that," he says, putting an arm around her waist. February beams.

"Okay," I say skeptically. "That's fifteen thousand credits."

I swear Mars almost has a heart attack.

"What?" he splutters. I shrug helplessly.

"I don't set the prices, I just work here," I say in way of apology. Mars looks flustered for a moment, then takes a look over his corner where Ribbon is sweeping. He catches her eye and decides rightly that she's listening in and he'd better watch himself. He leans in and whispers to me.

"Look, Lance. You and I are friends, right? Right. Couldn't you knock the price down? For me? I'll get the rest of the money to you later, I promise."

I shake my head, "No, sorry. I'll get fired. The boss is really strict: cash up front. We've been burned before, I'm sorry to say."

"But- but I don't have fifteen thousand credits!" he complains. I shrug again.

"Well… I'm sorry."

Mars glowers at me and February looks equally as upset. Eventually he turns away and goes over to look at the other displays, February still clinging to his arm. The air of wounded dignity follows them; I roll my eyes at Ribbon when they aren't looking and she chuckles a little. She smiles apologetically as if to say, "Sorry you had to be the one to deal with them, Lance." I screw my face up into a martyred, pained expression and she snorts with laughter.

"What are you laughing at?" February snaps. Embarrassed, Ribbon pretends she didn't hear and goes right back to sweeping. "Hey! I'm talking to you!" the other girl growls.

Ribbon looks up meekly and titters. "Oh me? I- I wasn't laughing a-"

"Don't tell me you weren't laughing! I'm not deaf."

"Oh. No, I _was _laughing, just not at you. I was just thinking about something funny Lance said earlier, and I-"

"Changing your story? That's very convincing," February says, her voice dripping venom. Ribbon shrinks in around her broom. I can see her calculating whether or not it's worth it to talk back to a customer and societal superior. And it makes me mad. People like February Brannock aren't good enough to tie Ribbon's shoes, and yet they get to walk all over everyone because their fathers have money.

Never mind that I'm one of those people, sort of. I'm really not. The only reason I'm safe is because they don't know. My whole family could be just like Ribbon; I imagine February tearing Whisper down instead. And I decide I'm tired of her.

"Get out," I order quietly. Everyone turns to look at me, a little shocked.

"Wh- what did you say to me?" February gasps.

"I told you to leave. We don't want your business, thank you very much. We don't have to sell you anything. If you don't leave I'll need to fetch a Peacekeeper to escort you off the premises," I reply calmly. Mars and February look absolutely scandalized. Soon the look of utter bewilderment turns to anger. Mars spins on his heel and makes for the door, but February doesn't follow. Instead she marches up to the front display where I sit and leans across the table, over the cash box.

"What are you even doing here, Lance? A Brahmier, working for a middle class family? Y ou're a disgrace," she hisses. I feel myself tense. It's not her words, so much. I got more or less the same response from everyone when I started working. What gets me is the disgust in her eyes. I really don't belong with them, do I? I'd be better off just moving into town and spending my days with Ribbon.

She turns and minces out the door with her nose in the air, pausing only to look at Ribbon like she's something February scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

Ribbon watches her go and then turns to me. "Thanks," she murmurs. I nod and we sit in silence until a few minutes before the reaping, when Whisper comes in to get me. I walk outside with my arm around my sister's shoulder. She has the blond hair that is almost universal in District 1. Honestly, we must have had some moderate genetic engineering down to us in the past, because the percent of the population with golden, blond, or white-blond hair is ridiculous.

"Good luck," I say, giving Whisper a kiss on the top of the head.

"Don't get yourself killed," she responds dryly, trying to wipe s smudge of frosting off her dress. She's the baker's assistant; I've told her never to work in her good clothes, but she just doesn't listen to me. She'll get an earful from our mother tonight, I'm sure.

I don't pay much attention until the microphone screeches. Before my thoughts were rudely interrupted I had been watching the people; seeking out Whisper and Ribbon, glancing at February and Mars where they hold hands over the rope that separates the sixteen and seventeen-year-old sections. Now I begrudgingly turn my eyes to the mayor where she stands, looking incredibly embarrassed. She made one of the first-timer girls faint, and I wonder if I should help attend to her. But no, someone's handling it already.

Her speech is dull and stuttered. The mayor is a good administrator, but a terrible public speaker. I wonder if they elected her that way on purpose, so that those in power wouldn't have the sort of charisma needed to muster a rebellion. If they did, it was a waste of time. I can't imagine District 1 will ever rebel.

Finally, it's time for the draw. Now I'm unable to keep my anxiety down. What if it's Whisper? Or Ribbon? Even the idea of February being taken makes me feel a little sick. I may hate her, but she has people who don't. People who love her. Beyond that, no child deserves this. There is no _right _person to choose for the Hunger Games.

"Amethyst Reinhart!"

_Amethyst ? _What are the odds of _her _being chosen? I seek her out. It's not hard. She's standing in the clump of town kids, who also collected near the sixteen-seventeen border. She looks stunned. I can hardly blame her. Slowly, Amethyst makes her way toward the stage. She's doing remarkably well. She looks scared of course, but also like she refuses to let that stand in her way. I wish her the best.

"Lance Brahmier!"

Wait… what?

But it's true. The escort said my name. Said _my _name. Why else would everyone's eyes have snapped from Amethyst's face to mine? It's the only explanation. Slowly, I clench my hands to fists at my side and move forward, toward the stage.

The rest of the reaping is a blur. The only thing I think about is that I've been chosen. It doesn't make any sense. I can't pound it through my head. Eventually I'm led off the stage. _Well, I guess it's time to say my last goodbyes to my family, in case I'm murdered in the Hunger Games and never return._

Not even thinking about it that way makes it real.

I'm brought back to earth not when they sit me down in the greeting room, but when my family comes in. The looks on their faces… I feel like I might be sick. Still, it's like I don't quite understand. I want to make them look less afraid, but not because I understand the source of their fear.

They don't look like they quite know what to do, either. Whisper and my mother's eyes are filled with tears. Magpie is stoic as always, but I can see cracks in her armor. Her hands shake and she breathes through her mouth. My father just looks lost. I stand and walk to where they all stand against the wall. I give each of them a hug in turn.

"I'll fight to get back to you," I say. It's the truth. I'm not the violent sort, but I will not hurt them by giving up. I will protect them as best as I can. The other kids can do the same. I won't hold it against them any. What else can we do? "I love you. All of you."

Whisper gives me another tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. "I love you, too, Lance. Any time I ever denied it or got mad at you… I'm sorry. I'm just- I'm sorry." I smile at her. Whisper touches my cheek once and flees. She knows it won't help me to see her crying.

Magpie is next. I guess we're going in age order, then.

She sticks out her hand. I take it, but she pulls me against her immediately. I bury my face in her braid. Trying to memorize how she feels. How she smells. How her long fingers dig into the fabric of my shirt. She pulls back after several second and nods sternly. Magpie doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. My older sister turns on her heel and marches out, probably to console Whisper.

My mother can't hold herself in the way my sisters have. She dissolves into tears, blubbering something along the lines of, "My baby, my baby!" I just hold her several minutes, until my father gently lifts her off me.

"I'm sorry for everything," he says.

"You didn't do anything," I protested.

"No. And that's the problem. I've been so obsessed with keeping the house, keeping secrets… I never stopped to consider you, or your sisters. I've been an idiot and a terrible person. If any good is going to come out of that, it will be that realization," he says, and I can see genuine pain in his eyes.

"Well… if I win I'll have enough to pay off the mortgage," I offer, trying to smile. I can tell he appreciates the joke, but he doesn't smile. Instead, he wraps me in one more hug and then more or less carries my mother out the door. I sit slowly on the couch. I can feel the reality of the situation flittering on the edge of my mind. It's almost within my grasp, but do I really want it?

After a couple minutes the door creaks back open. Ribbon pushes it closed behind her, uncertainly. The brown hair that marks her as different from most of District 1 falls over her shoulder. I suddenly wish my hair were brown rather than blond. I wish I could openly not fit in like Ribbon does, instead of having to pretend.

"I… I wasn't sure if I should come," she says quietly. "I mean, I just assumed you'd want to spend your whole hour with your family, but…"

"No, I'm glad you did," I say with a small smile. "Besides, I only needed a little time with them. They're my _family. _I know they love me. There wasn't much to say, really, other than goodbye. Besides, I don't know how well I could have handled a long goodbye. It's better this way."

She nods. She drifts uncertainly across the room and sits next to me on the couch. She takes my hand and gives it a tight squeeze. She looks so sad, so open, that the words are out of my mouth before I really stop to think about it.

"Look. My family… we're not really wealthy. We're barely keeping our heads above the water. That's why I started working for your father. I never told anyone because my father thought it would be embarrassing. But I can trust you not to tell anyone, right?" I ask.

"Of course," she says, looking a little bewildered.

"What?" I ask. It feels good to tell her, but I can't for the life of me explain her look of confusion.

"You're still… aren't you scared?" she asks. Almost begs.

"What? No, not really. I mean-"

"_How?_" she exclaims plaintively. I blink in confusion, but she's not finished. "You could _die_, Lance! You might just leave and never come back. Have you even considered how your family would feel? How I would feel? How-"

Halfway through her last sentence, she changes her mind and kisses me on the mouth instead. She turns and runs out the door before I have even processed this turn of events, much less decided what to do about them. My hand goes to my lips, eventually, but I'm a little distracted.

Now I understand, I think. Ribbon is so shy she would never have the guts to do that unless real desperation was fueling her. She thinks there's a very real chance I will not survive. If she is afraid for me, shouldn't I be?

I could die soon. Really die. I could just be gone. Cease to exist. Expire. However you want to say it, the effect is the same. It's entirely possible that I, Lance Brahmier, am not long for this earth.

Strangely enough, this doesn't scare me. Instead it brings out the latent anger that I'm sure was showing on my face when all my conscious thoughts were silenced by confusion. This has no right to occur. What have I done? Nothing. Not only that, but neither have any of the people who care about me. This is unfair in every sense of the word. Unfortunately, there's that old saying about the fairness or lack thereof you're likely to encounter in life. I guess in that case I have no choice to fight for what I deserve. What they all deserve.

"Mr. Brahmier?" the Peacekeeper opens the door. I've been thinking for a long time, then. Well, I'm done with slow thoughts and flippant denial. I understand what's happening and I accept it. However, I refuse to give in to it.

"I'm coming," I say brusquely. I stand and straighten my shirt. From now on everyone will be looking at me. I need to appear as put together as I feel, for myself and for my family.

Besides, I wouldn't to embarrass myself on national television. No matter what else happens, I will fight for my dignity as well as my life, and that starts now. I'm ready.


	3. Ready, Set, Go

**A/N**- This character brought to you by ForeverAdrian.

* * *

I smooth the skirt of my dress down, observing myself critically in my family's mirror. The dress is floor length, a welcome change from everything that _used _to be in my closet. After so long with skirts that I had chopped of mid-palm, I've come to value the elegance of a very long dress. I arrange my hair, which has been tied with rag curlers overnight. There. I look as close to perfect as one can realistically hope. Not that I've ever been the one to stop at realistic, or average. No matter what I do, I never do it halfway.

"Anastasia? Are you up yet?" my mother calls from the kitchen. With two parents working full time, our tiny house has two stories and wood floors. It's more than a lot of people have, even if we have to cram four people (two of which are divorced and despise each other) into it. I'm grateful for that.

"Yes," I call back. "Coming, Mamma!"

I stop overanalyzing my appearance and turn to the door. I'm interrupted by my little brother, who blinks at me through mostly closed eyes. "You're not dressed yet?" I snort. He glares at me.

"No, and if you'd been downstairs two minutes ago, Mother might not have had to shout so loudly and wake me up at all!" he growls. I roll my eyes because I know he's lying. Mamma's only called for me once, and there's no way my slugabed of a brother could have pulled himself out of bed, made it down the hall, and have gotten in here to glare at me in the few seconds it's been since she shouted. No, Alexander is just arguing so as not to say he's been defeated.

"Oh, I'm so very sorry. Now if you'll excuse me I have a breakfast to eat downstairs," I say and shoulder my way past him. Alexander mutters obscenities at me, but I know it's only because he's angry. He adores me. And, alright, maybe I reciprocate. I give him a winsome smile on my way down the stairs just to be safe. He snorts, which is how I know he's forgiven me already.

"Anasta- oh, there you are," my mother says with a tight smile. She worries too much. I swear she nearly throws a fit if I don't check in with her every few minutes. But I know my… history better than anyone, and I can't blame her in the least for being careful. "You look lovely."

"Thank you, Mamma." I give my mother a kiss on the cheek and, after a moment of hesitation, do the same for my father. He's nursing a cup of coffee, which I'm sure he's made himself. As rocky as _my _relationship with him might have been, he gets along even worse with Mamma. He smiles a little at me, but other than that gives no acknowledgment that I'm even in the room. I assume he and Mamma have had a fight (possibly about waking me up) and now he's just annoyed enough at all of creation that he's afraid we'll end up fighting if we try to talk.

"How would you like your egg, Sweetheart?" my mother asks. I think.

"Maybe… do we have anything to put in an omelet?" I try sheepishly. My mother frowns, thinking hard. Omelets are special. My mother and father have worked hard to see that Alexander and I are well fed, but there are still limits to that. Eggs, we have. Cheese, meat, and vegetables to put in them? Not quite as often. Never all at once.

"I think… we have some goat cheese. I can try making something out of that," she says thoughtfully. I feel myself break into a smile. Goat cheese isn't really all that much, but it's still enough to make breakfast feel a little special. Goodness knows I could use a little special, today of all days…

But I'm not going to think about that. I refuse to. If I think about it, I'll get scared. It's hard to deal with life in Panem if you let anything, fear included, bog you down. So, for me, fear is not an option because I refuse to let anything hold me back from accomplishing what I want to accomplish. This most certainly extends to my own emotions and includes something as seemingly insignificant as enjoying a nice breakfast.

"Thank you, Mamma," I say, wrapping my arms around her neck. I sit down, opposite my father. The kitchen table is small and round. Four of us barely fit on it at once. Of course, Father usually takes his breakfast alone. He does almost everything alone, although he's getting a bit better.

I sneak a look at him out of the corner of my eye. Goodness knows what kept him with us all this time, to be honest. He and my mother have their marriage more or less vivisected three years ago. It came out of nowhere. They'd always quarreled, but never violently or with any more genuine hate than two siblings might. I guess it was less that they fought so hard, and more that they fought so much. Everything was a battle with the two of them. Still is, as often as not. But when they split, I was sure my father would leave us. He didn't love me particularly much; he expected me to be perfect. Maybe he stayed for Alexander. My little brother put so much stock in our family… to see something so important dissolve so profoundly would have killed him.

I look away. It's best to avoid thinking about the difficulties I've had with my father. I've found it makes it much harder to enjoy the relatively normal relationship I've been able to establish with him. So does having my mother around and in a state of nerves like she is today, but I can't exactly ask her to leave.

_Thumpthump, thumpthump, thumpthump. _The sounds of my brother making his way down the stairs are dull and loping. I glance once over my shoulder reflexively, and then go back to watching my mother cook. Alexander is dressed already. I reflect ruefully on how simple getting dressed is for a boy: pants and shirt and you're done! I guess I'd be a little more jealous if I didn't like dresses so much.

"Morni- ooh, is that an omelet?" he asks. Two seconds in the room and he's already distracted by the cooking. _Men_. Well, _boys. _Alexander's only sixteen.

"Mhm," my mother replies. "With goat cheese. Half is for you."

"Wonderful!" he exclaims, rubbing his hands together. He sits down between our father and me; probably so he won't have to turn around in his seat to watch Mamma cook. We all sit in sudden silence for a moment before someone knocks at the door.

"Hm? Whoever could that be?" my mother mutters thoughtfully, still mostly focused on her cooking. "Oh, Anastasia, dear, do you think you could-"

"Sure," I chirp. I bounce up from my spot and to the front door, which is in the kitchen, oddly enough. My stomach grumbles, coaxed by the delicious smell of cooking eggs. I rub my abdomen once and pull the door open. "How may I- oh, Antony," I say with a smile. I wasn't expecting my boyfriend to come see me. He has a lot of siblings, and a very closely-knit family. He usually spends reaping morning with them. Or at least, he has so far. I guess two years isn't quite enough to be called "usually".

Antony wraps an arm around my waist and kisses me with unusual force. A little surprised, I push the door closed behind me. He presses me back against, and I kiss him. I'm still a little too surprised to really enjoy it.

After another couple seconds, Antony doesn't give any sign of slowing down. I push gently against his chest and he pulls back. "What?"

"Not that this isn't romantic, but... why are you here?" I ask. "I wasn't expecting you, or we could have-"

"No, I wanted to surprise you," he says. He's full of some sort of nervous energy, and can barely stand still. "Come, Ana. Let's go for a walk, okay?"

"Okay," I say a little puzzled. This is out of character for Antony. He's not quite the spontaneous, romantic type. He's more grounded and sturdy. I like that about him. I've had plenty of spontaneous, passionate relationships. To be honest, none of them were very... fulfilling. It was pretty obvious that the only bond between all of my shot-lived lovers and me was mutual pleasure. Not that I think Antony has just gotten tired and has decided it's time to add more action to our relationship. And maybe it'll be nice to see the less... inhibited side of my beau. Either way, he looks so determined that I don't feel like arguing with him about it.

He's almost bouncing up and down in place, although I can't tell if he's upset or excited. I'm dying of curiosity to find out what he came to talk to me about, or show me, or whatever; but I don't push him for an answer. He'll tell me as soon as he's ready.

We walk for another minute or two before I decide that the whole "waiting patiently" approach has to go out the window.

"Hey, Antony. This is a nice walk, but I'm going to miss breakfast. And I'm hungry. Is there something we need to do right now, or can it wait until after I eat?" I say, trying to interrupt our rambling as politely as possible. Antony stops walking for a moment and frowns. He drops my hand and begins pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. Now he seems nervous. I'm starting to get a little worried. "Antony?"

"Let's get out of here," he blurts suddenly. I blink.

"O- okay. Let's go... back, then?" I reply, a little confused.

"No," he says. "I mean, out of District Two. Haven't you ever wondered what it's like outside of the fences? I mean, what if there's an entire free world just... an hour's walk to north, or something? The Capitol could be keeping something from us. They could be keeping _freedom _from us, and we'll have missed it because we were too chicken to even go looking!"

He gestures wildly as he talks, barely even looking at me. I fiddle with my skirt, a little bewildered. Antony has never been the sort prone to doing anything so adventurous. I can't fathom what's brought on this sudden urge to bid for freedom.

"I don't understand. Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? We're prisoners, Ana! We're slaves! Don't you want to escape that, to escape the Capitol?" he exclaims. I hush him. I don't see anybody on the path, but it's still not safe to blurt things like that out.

"Of course, but... hop the fence? Antony, that's insane! Everything you've said is just a dream! Just conjecture! If you had any reason to believe the things you've been saying, then maybe. But now? And besides, we don't know what it's like out there. We don't know how to survive. We'd die!" I hiss.

"And we're not going to die here? Here we'll worked to death, or get reaped, or..."

"Is that what this is about? The reaping?" I ask. "Because it's not worth the risk if it is. The chances of death by the Hunger Games are tiny compared to death by starving in the wilderness or getting eaten by wild animals," I say. We haven't exactly been angry with each other, but we have been arguing our side of the case pretty adamantly. Now Antony slumps in on himself and wraps his arms around his knees. I'm confused by his sudden change in demeanor. I hesitantly lean down and pout my hand on his shoulder. Antony is a big guy, and it's strange to see him looking like this. Looking so vulnerable.

"What's... what's wrong?" I ask.

"I- it's stupid. I just have this... bad feeling about this. About today. I mean, the Hunger Games are a punishment, right? Well I- I haven't been punished yet. I didn't know anybody who was taken. I'm not dead. I just feel like it's still hanging over me, just waiting to punish me," he croaks.

"Antony, that's not how it works and you know it. Look, you're really not important enough to the Capitol to have them after you specifically. No offense," I say. "It's really unlikely that anything will happen. Of course, it's not impossible, but the truth is you have a better chance if you just stay here."

He gives a coughing laugh, "I know. I know. I just- I can't shake this feeling."

"Hey. Don't let it slow you down," I say, tipping his chin up and smiling at him. "You're not as much fun when you're mopey, you know that?"

He smiles ruefully at me, but rubs at his red eyes. He's not quite crying, but he's close. Thankfully, I can already see his resolve strengthening. That's how you deal will Antony when he's in a funk: you challenge him. Now that he has his challenge, being an enjoyable person to be around, he has something to work for. He'll be fine. Unless of course, something _does _happen... but I push that idea away. _That _train of thought is more trouble than it's worth to pursue.

"Now, can I go eat my breakfast?" I ask him. He laughs.

"Yeah. Okay. Sorry to drag you out here, Ana."

"No problem. You want to come with? I don't think we have any extra eggs; but you know Mamma and Alexander like you, so you'll at least have people to talk to," I offer.

"No, thanks. I should- my family will wonder where I am," he says, giving my hand a squeeze. I nod.

"Yeah. Okay. I'll see you at the reaping then, Antony." I squeeze back and he kisses me once on the forehead. Then he sets off for his house, and I turn to go back to mine. I have to remind myself to hurry a couple times, as I'm thinking more about Antony than my pace. He's usually so put together... it's a bit disconcerting to see him like he was a few minutes ago. I hope he's recovered by the reaping, or I'll be miserable through the whole thing. We support each other, and if either one of us is down for too long, it's upsetting for both of us.

Soon enough I'm back at home. I slip in the door to find my mother has gone upstairs to dress herself, and Alexander has already finished his half of the omelet. Only my father is still in the room, fixing himself a piece of fried toast.

"Your breakfast is on the table," he says, jerking his head toward it, just in case I've forgotten where the kitchen table is. I smile in thanks anyway, because I know he means well, and sit down. "Would you like some toast? I bought some bread yesterday. Hid it from your mother, so you can sneak some without her implying we'll all starve to death if we take any small liberties."

"Oh. Yes, please." My father's accusations aren't entirely true, but my mother probably would suggest I skip the toast if she was here. And, well, I like toast. So I'll agree with my father's grumblings if it gets me a slice. My father sets to cutting another slice of bread, leaving the first to fry its buttered side.

"What did Antony want?" he asks.

"Not much," I reply. "Some comfort. It's our last reaping and he's scared. I don't blame him. I think Alexander is, too, but you know _he'll _never admit to it."

"Are you?" he says, a little more quietly. He doesn't look at me as he asks, probably because he knows I'd be less likely to be honest with him if I had to look him in the eye.

"Mm, no, not really," I respond. I can tell Father is a little skeptical, so I clarify. "I mean I refuse to be frightened. Clearly, I'd much rather avoid being sent to fight other children to the death, but I find ignoring it is a very effective coping device." He still looks a little surprised. I'm guessing it has to do with how easily I admitted that I was not immune to fear, but merely suppressing it. It seems like the logical conclusion to me. Any intelligent person would be afraid today. While I don't advocate letting fear rule you, to have none is ridiculous.

I expect that, while anyone who can think is afraid of the reaping, there are many people like me: strong enough to refuse to be burdened with their fear. Alexander seems to employing the same tool; he doesn't delude himself with false optimism or wallow in helpless terror, he simply shrugs it off and chooses not to acknowledge it. I wouldn't be surprised if he chose the same method of dealing with fear as me. We're really very similar people. Both of us are fiercely dedicated, and refuse to let anything keep us from what we want.

"Toast's ready," my father says lightly. By now I've finished my omelet. Mother must have found some mushrooms in the cupboard, because they were cooked in with the goat cheese. I don't particularly like mushrooms, but Alexander does and they go well enough with the cheese. I thank my father and eat the toast as he cooks himself a slice. After a few minutes my mother comes downstairs, smoothing her hair nervously. We know without saying that it's time to head for the reaping. What more can we do here?

It's an uneventful walk. Alexander and I pretend to quarrel. My parents ignore each other stiffly. The closer we get to the spot chosen for the reaping, the thicker the crowds of people become. District 2 is quite spread out, so some people have been walking a lot longer than us. They chose a pretty central location, not actually near the Justice Building, to be fair, but a few young children are complaining that their feet hurt. Some older citizens take breaks sitting by the road. Lucky people ride in wagons, although I don't see many of them. More people might actually be able to afford a wagon, but it's difficult and expensive to keep a horse or donkey to pull them.

Soon we reach the stage. Peacekeepers direct us into roped-off sections. Alexander gives me a quick hug before we're separated. Almost everyone has arrived, so it takes me a minute to find Antony. He looks much better now, and smiles at me as I take his hand. I lean against him and he wraps an arm around my waist. It sets a pair of girls muttering behind us. They think they're being quiet enough that I won't be able to hear them over the din of pre-reaping bustle, but I can pick up enough of their words to understand their meaning.

"Good-for nothing… girl." "Guys may take… like her home… don't _marry_ them." "How can she… disgusting!"

I stiffen next to Antony. I begin to turn around to glare at them, but he angles me farther forward to stop me. "Just ignore them," he mutters. "They're just jealous. They don't what they're talking about."

I nod and try not to think about them. The frustrating thing is, they almost _do. _I don't behave that way anymore, but it certainly used to be the case. There was a time when I would be anybody's lover, for a night. I don't behave that way anymore, but most of the girls in my District wouldn't believe that if you told them. The worst thing about reputations is they're almost impossible to change if you get a bad one. I wish I'd known that before. I wish I'd known how people would look at me with disgust. I wish I'd known how taken advantage of I would feel, or how Antony's lips on mine would remind me of all those other lips, more often than not. It's harder than I would have expected.

But no one tells you that. Why would they? Admitting guilt is tantamount to admitting one committed an offense. No one likes confessing that something they did is wrong.

"Three years ago to this day, the rebels submitted to the Capitol…" the Mayor begins. He's a fat, grimacing old man. Speaking of things you don't want admit you've done wrong, this is one of them. Except in this case, we really _didn't _do anything wrong. Districts 1, 2, 4, and 7 are being punished along with all the Districts who arguably earned it by attempting a revolution. In District 2, we mostly just grit our teeth and try not to get too upset about it. We've always been one of the most loyal Districts, and even a rather independent girl like myself isn't really inclined to fight against it.

But Antony, quiet Antony… It's odd. I certainly don't relish the idea of being sent to my death, but the Hunger Games are one force it's better to go along with than to fight.

Eewyn Carre is introduced, which is ridiculous. Everyone in Panem knows who she is. _Everyone_. Honestly, you can't turn on the television to watch one of those ridiculous Capitol TV dramas without seeing her face once or twice. She's all over the place, even more than Wrianin Abro is. I guess it's not surprising. He's a mess, and the Capitol people are spoiled enough that they don't like messes of any sort. Still, it can get a little ridiculous. When Eewyn Carre cut her hair, the news channels talked about nothing else for three weeks.

"-such an honor to be here! Now, let's collect our two lovely contestants!" trills the "escort." Supposedly, these Capitolites have been appointed to help the chosen children conduct themselves in the Capitol. Seems like a waste of time to me. I mean, everyone knows the average Capitol citizen is an idiot. I bet most of the kids could do better on their own.

"And our girl is…" he says, unfurling the slip with a ridiculous amount of drama. As silly as he looks, it's effective. You can feel the sickly tension in the air, and everyone leans forward a little, mentally if not physically.

"Anastasia Barbera!"

_Well. I guess I should have been worried, after all._

I almost laugh at my own blasé reaction, until I realize what's just happened. I've been _reaped_. I'm going to be sent to the arena, probably to die. Oh. _Oh._

If I were anywhere except in the middle of a crowd, with everyone in Panem watching in person or by camera, I'd be sick.

I feel my legs shake. Antony's arm around my waist has suddenly tightened. I think he's frozen. It wouldn't be such a problem, if it didn't hurt so much.

"Antony. Antony, please let go," I hiss, pushing against his side. I'm relatively athletic, but Antony is a big guy. If he's holding me in place, I'm not going to be strong enough to push my way away from him.

He looks at me dazedly. "I- I need to go," I whisper. He drops his arm hesitantly, like he thinks he's dreaming. Only he's not. Unless I'm dreaming. Could I be? I don't think so. I remember waking up this morning, getting dressed, talking to my family and then to him. I had breakfast, and came here. At no point did I go back to bed or even lay down. Did I pass out, or something? Sometimes I do, because of my low blood sugar, but I don't remember feeling faint. No, the most logical conclusion is that I am awake, and that this is really happening.

Drat, to put it nicely.

I work my way to the stage. Before I was chosen, it was a chore to make my way through the thick crowds. Now I don't have to bother. People part in front of me like I have some leprous disease. I guess I sort of do. I'm the victim, the reminder that we have no control of our lives. No wonder no one wants to touch me.

But is that true? Of course the chosen children have no choice but to participate; once your name is drawn you go, end of discussion. Still, there is always the choice of how you want to play the game. One of the girls last year took the fast way out and killed herself. Eewyn Carre, our victor, decided to throw her lot in to win. She even betrayed her ally. No, there is always some choice. Not necessarily a good choice, but it's there.

"And lovely she is, indeed!" the escort trills. He smiles at me and pumps my hand eagerly. I try not to glare at him. "Now for our lucky boy!"

Lucky. Ha! He's either even more stupid than he looks, or he has a very cruel sense of humor.

"Ah! Mr. Caspar Bower!"

I wince a little. I've seen Caspar around. From what I know of him, he's just about the worst choice for the Hunger Games. Well, the worst for me, anyway. He never seems to be around anyone, or even smiling. That's dangerous. If he's a loner, there's a good chance he's used to being alone and cares a great deal more for his existence than others. In the upcoming Hunger Games, I don't doubt Caspar Bower will be willing to kill. And if he's ready, I need to be, too.

To be honest, what went on in my final goodbyes is nothing I want to rehash. It is no one's business but my own, anyway. I decide as soon as I'm hustled toward the train not to cheapen my family's final words by giving them out to world, pretending my decision has nothing to do with my father's stiff distance, my mother's weeping vulnerability, or Alexander's stunned helplessness. That is has nothing to do with the way Antony's… _rightness _hung in the air. The regret I felt knowing I should have taken his offer to disappear, even if I would have been just as dead anyway. No, I swear I will keep these things to myself. I'm going to be giving too much of myself up in the next few weeks, anyway.

"J- Julia!" I stutter, as the last group of my relatively-close friends leaves. She looks back at me, her eyes watery.

"What, Ana?" she asks, choking a little on the words.

"This is going to sound so stupid, but… does my hair look okay?" I ask quietly. She blinks, clearly confused.

"O- of course. You look fine, Anastasia," she says. I nod once and give her a smile to signal that that was all I needed to ask her. She smiles weakly in return and slips out the door.

Now I go the Capitol. Now I have to make the same choice that every child has before me. Do I win, or lose? I have decided that I will play the role of the winner and I start now, by looking the part for the cameras.

_I'm ready. Let's go._


	4. Dead or Gone

**A/N**- This character was created by Lostliveson4eva. I had a harder time with someone who doesn't interact with people. but I think it turned out well!

* * *

Sad as it is, I'm not surprised Mikul was my only visitor.

I rub my hands over the soft fabric of the couch, wishing the last few minutes would just hurry up and pass. If I thought there was any chance someone else would come in and see me, I might not be in such a hurry to leave District 2; but, as it is, every moment is just increasingly painful. Sitting back and drawing my feet up onto the couch's plush surface, I wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on my knees.

Where did I go wrong? Is it _my_ fault that the only person in the District who cares enough about me to say goodbye to me before I leave, maybe forever, is my little brother?

Where are my parents? Shouldn't they have come, at least out of sympathy? I mean, I know they fell out of love shortly before Mikul was born, but that's not _my _fault. I know they've always been distant, but I'm their _son_. Isn't the love of a parent for their child supposed to be more powerful than any other love in the world? How did I lose that? How did we lose that?

I think back as far as I can. Most of my childhood before I was eleven or so is a blur. All I really remember is a rush of faint colors, grays and blues. I can't imagine that means anything good. Until I go _really _far back, to before Mikul's birth. Then I feel like there's something there, glimmering. Something good. What happened to that? Why did my parents stop loving each other, and their children? I can't remember, and that's the worst part.

I bury my face more deeply in my knees. It's no good wallowing around in the depths of long-lost memories. Instead I scan the recent past.

This morning was like any other. My parents were still asleep. I woke up when Mikul figured it was time for me to get up. He shook me awake before going back downstairs to finish his breakfast. I lay in bed for a little while longer, thankful my brother was a human alarm clock, waking up at 6:30 every morning, day off work or not.

I looked out the window. It didn't have any glass in it, so our room was always cold. During the winter, we'd hand a couple of blankets up over it, but now, in the summer, it was open to the outside world. Maybe we were asking to get robbed, but there wasn't much in our house we absolutely could not afford to lose. I slept with my grandfather's sword, anyway. Which was _also _illegal, but if worst came to worst, I could always… dispose of the body, I guess. I can't imagine that the Peacekeepers would ever be able to trace anything back to me.

I shoved the thought away. That was a little too gruesome for reaping morning. I tried to avoid thinking about death and mutilation when death and mutilation were imminent.

I pulled my blankets closer around my chin. I never really minded getting up in the morning. I just hated leaving the warmth of my old blankets. It had to happen sooner or later, though, and I soon swung my legs over the edge of the bed, onto the concrete floor, thankful that my socks provided protection from the c old surface. I stretched, cracking my back and rolling my shoulders. I rubbed at my neck, which I must have slept on wrong.

I padded through the empty doorway into the kitchen, where Mikul stood frying some sort of potato dish. He smiled half-heartedly and said, "There are some more in the cupboard." He didn't offer to make me any. He never did. I never did for him or our parents, either. I nodded, and dug around until I found one.

I set to washing the potato in the sink. It was a relatively cheap foodstuff, so we ate a lot of potatoes. I didn't mind. I liked them.

"You ready for today?" I asked Mikul. He grimaced.

"Never. You?"

"Not really," I admitted. "I guess I'll just hope for the best, as usual."

"Well, this is your last year," Mikul says. "I mean, if you make it this year… you're free."

He said free with such longing that I felt a guilty. "Yeah, but then I'm stuck with _you _for the rest of my life, little man," I teased. Mikul stuck out his tongue but chuckled nonetheless. Overall, it had been a crushingly average day, other than the fear of the reaping hanging over our heads.

"Mr. Bower?" The Peacekeeper sticks her head in. At least she has the decency to look sorry for me. I take it she's probably new, then, because for the most part the Capitol employees have met me with cold indifference.

"Yes? Is it time to go?" I ask. She nods.

"If you'll follow me, please, I'll take you to the train," she says. I nod. What else can I do? Despite how eager I was to get going only a moment ago, I'm suddenly hesitant to leave. I guess I'd almost forgotten what setting out was going to mean. It would mean that I was being taken to the Capitol; to either die or see twenty-three kids dies so I could live.

Suddenly, sitting around in the waiting room was sounding like a really good idea.

I turned around, trying to memorize the inside of the room. Maybe District 2 hadn't provided me with the perfect life, or the perfect family, or the perfect _anything_, but there had been security. There had been truths to rely on. Now that's all going to be thrown into question.

What can I trust? What can I believe? If this world will let something like this happen, what can it possibly forbid?

I'd go back to a loveless family life if it meant I could be safe. I mean, I wasn't particularly happy, but there were always moments.

I remember the first time I found the gap in the fence. District 2 was huge, so there were probably dozens of similar holes in the uncared-for fence. Really, the fence is a joke. No one in this District is incapable of escaping, should they want to. The metal links are no deterrent. Fear of and respect for the Capitol is what keeps the residents of District 2 in check. There are a few of us, like myself, who prefer _not _to stay inside. It didn't hurt that I was started on the road to illegal activity when I inherited my grandfather's sword. My mom's not the type to wield any sort of weapon, ever, so she passed it on to me as soon as she possibly could. After that day, I always snuck out of the fence on weekends or after I finished my homework to practice with the sword. To be honest, I totally made things up as I went along. I didn't know anybody who used a sword, and certainly not anybody I could trust with the knowledge that I had a sword in my possession.

I never really did much else in the woods. It wasn't so much that I hated the Capitol and was doing everything I could to rebel against them; I just wanted an escape. I wanted seclusion. I've always been that sort of person, a little private. Most of the time I wanted to be left alone. There were other times when I had to admit, if only to myself, that I was kind of lonely. Maybe it was my distant family and my slightly sarcastic, inappropriate sense of humor. Not everybody would take it very well if I asked him if he were ready for reaping day. Not everyone would find my flippant response to his honest, "no" very entertaining.

The sad thing was, I wasn't even that close to Mikul. He was nice kid that I knew pretty well and spent a lot of time with, but that was about it. There wasn't some totally unique bond that we shared that no one else did. If you didn't know Mikul was my brother and we didn't look so similar, you probably wouldn't have guessed by seeing us together. To be honest, Mikul was closer to a lot of his school friends than he was to me.

_Mikul _is _closer to his school friends than he _is _to you_. _You're _not _dead. You're _not _going to die._

But try as I might to convince myself, I don't quite buy it. The way everyone is looking at me makes it quite clear that they don't think it's any stretch of imagination to think I might never come back. To think I won't survive this. As frightening as that is, I almost don't care. What upsets me is the way that nobody at all seems to regret that I might never return.

I scan the faces of the crowd gathered outside the Justice Building, looking for one that's teary or angry. I see no one. Not even Mikul is there. I suppose he's gone back to the privacy of our house where he can work through his feelings without interruption. Instead the crowd is made up partly of those here to see the girl, Anastasia; reporters and cameramen from the Capitol, and people drawn here by the natural human fascination with the macabre. Maybe I should feel angry withy those who are only here to gawk, but I can understand their fascination. It's like looking at a caged animal. As horrible as it is, you can't help being drawn to such danger and horrible power when you don't think it can hurt you.

No, I wouldn't mind them if I thought they would mourn it all if I died. But I don't. These people don't know me. They won't mourn me any more than any person in any District anywhere. Is that my fault, too? If I'd tried to connect with them, would I have been left feeling less lonely as I was taken away? I don't know. I guess so. But it's not fair. How could they expect me to just make that happen? I'm not like Mikul. I'm not the sort who everybody just loves because I'm so funny or handsome or outgoing. How could I be? All I'd ever known was isolation. But I guess that wasn't their fault either. Whose was it? My parents' fault? I didn't know if I believed they'd done their best to love me or not.

I remember being fourteen years old. I knew we were having money problems. My parents never talked about it, but I could tell. Something had been going through District 2. No one really knew what it was, but two people had died from it. My father had come down with one or two of the symptoms, so naturally we were worried. He had to stay home, just in case, and most of money went to desperately purchasing new medications to try. With only one working parent and money being spent on medicine, we were short on money. I decided that, as the oldest son, it was my duty to help.

"I… was thinking of taking a job in quarries," I told my mother over dinner. It was thin soup that night, one that Mikul had cooked slowly since he got home from school. My mother looked up, clearly surprised. I fiddled with my spoon, afraid to look up in case she was looking at me with skepticism.

"You don't have to do that, Caspar," my mother said slowly. I opened my mouth to retort that I wanted to, but she held up a hand. "Actually, I don't want you to." I could feel the frown grow, but my mother continued. "It's not that I think you can't do it. I know you can do anything you set your mind to. You're a strong boy. But I don't want you to be stuck like your father and I are. If you start working now, you'll never finish school. There's a good chance that even if you _do _finish school, you'll end up working in the quarries, but I want you to have the best chance possible. If you want to help out, study harder and support your father and me when we're too old to work."

I nodded, not happy with her decision but accepting it. I knew my mother was older and wiser than I and she knew what was best. She might not have been the most loving mom, but there was no way she would have let Mikul or me starve. And she made the right choice. A week later my father had gotten over… whatever it was, and was back at work. Me taking a job would have only lead to me falling behind in school. No, I can't believe my parents would ever do anything to hurt me. Whoever's fault it is that I'm leaving this District alone, it's not theirs.

So is it mine, then? I think back, trying to scan every single one of my memories. Did I ever smile at someone, wish him or her a good morning? I can hardly remember any one specific incident, let alone pick them apart for social interaction. School was another long blur of classes and faces I never bothered to memorize and days I just wanted to see end.

I remember eating a lot of lunches alone, watching the other kids swarm and ebb. I liked watching people, even if I shrunk from speaking to them. I could either pretend that I was a part of their circle or that I was impartial and removed when I watched people, depending on the situation. Today I was imagining I was one of them, watching a group of boys on the other side of the lunch room laugh and talk loudly, occasionally breaking out into minor fistfights. I played with whatever the orange mush on my plate was, spreading it out and scooping it up with my spoon, but my mind was elsewhere. I wondered what it would be like to be sitting with them, joking and laughing. I told myself I didn't need that, didn't _want _that, but wasn't really convincing anyone.

Not that I had anyone but myself to convince, which made it that much worse.

_Oh, you're being ridiculous, Caspar, _I lectured myself. _If they like you, they'd have talked to you. I mean, you've gone to school with them for your whole life. Besides, you've got more important things to do with your time than sit around and play around with the other kids. Like… schoolwork and sword practice._

I forced myself to think about something else. Even I was a little annoyed to listen to me whine. Yes, I guess it was my fault. I should have done something about it, rather than just sitting around and wishing. But how does one just _start _doing something like that? I guess Mikul did, but I never quite figured out how.

Mikul…

I'm going to miss him, I realize. Even if we were never close, he was something to which that I knew I had a connection. A weak one, but a connection nonetheless. I wish, now more than ever, that my brother and I had been closer.

I remember a birthday, years ago. By the time Mikul was born the solid, silent wall between our parents was already up. That day, though, it was easy to pretend.

I don't know what was different that day. Everything just went right. I was turning twelve, nothing nearly so sinister in those days as it was today. The rebellion had just blown, and everyone was predicting a swift end. The first Peacekeeper platoons had just been deployed. Even if it was the beginnings of a war, there had been almost a parade air to watching them march through the District to be carried away in huge hovercraft troop carriers. It was new and exciting, and that was all people saw. No one expected three grueling years of war that would take over three hundred thousand lives, leaving Panem tiny and decimated. No, we didn't see that. None of us did. We didn't see the shutdown of inter-District travel as anything sinister; most of us would never have the money to afford something so expensive anyway. We didn't think the increased number of Peacekeepers was anything to worry about. It was wartime; what should we expect? We didn't see the erection and electrification of a fence as any sort of threat. The Capitol was putting it up for our benefit. It would be taken down when the rebels were defeated.

That was the attitude of my twelfth birthday: blind and happy and full of angry energy. It was infectious. My mother baked fresh bread, just for a special dinner. We ate the whole loaf, rather than rationing it conservatively. Mother gave me my sword, which I was astonished to find she had. "To kill any District soldiers that come marching through Town Square," she said with a wink. I got new clothes. Nothing too fancy, as I would outgrow them soon, but it was a happy time. One of the happiest I can remember. What really sticks out to me, even today, is the laughter. My father was always a serious man, and it was a little rare to see him crack a smile, much less laugh. But he did that day. He certainly did.

"Mr. Bower, you need to get on the train, sir," the Peacekeeper urges me. I blink.

Oh, right. The Hunger Games. Being sent to my death. Well, good thing someone decided to remind me about that. I'd almost forgotten what all of this soul searching was about. I can tell that I've been none too subtle in my zoning out, either, because the Peacekeeper is staring at me.

"What's your name?" I ask, on random impulse. She frowns, clearly a bit confused.

"Calvina. Calvina Mettlewhine, sir. But I don't really see how this…" she says, trailing off. "I _do _need to get you on your way to the Capitol, Mr. Bower. I'm sorry, but if you could just step in?" She motions into the waiting door of the train. Almost no one seems to have noticed that I'm dawdling. Anastasia is too busy building up an image to hide behind, and the gawkers are too busy eating it up. Only Calvina and the other Peacekeepers seem uncomfortable with the delay.

"Alright, calm down. The Capitol's four hours away; two minutes isn't going to kill anyone," I say.

"With all due respect, Mr. Bower, it might. Our supervisors are tough," she says, and the quaver is mostly gone from her voice. She straightens up and looks at me firmly.

"Okay, sorry," I mutter. I may be stalling, but my intention is not to get anybody hurt. Well, anybody who doesn't have to. Seeing as Anastasia and I are being shipped off to fight for our lives, I have serious doubts I'll be able to protect _everyone _involved. That would take a miracle. I turn and begin to mount the retractable stairs to the train. On a last whim I turn back to Calvina.

"Mr. Bower, I am authorized to use force if necessary!" She growls.

"I know, I know. Hold on just a second," I say, somewhat annoyed. "I'll go. But just… don't forget me, alright?"

"Um, excuse me?" she says.

"If I die, don't forget about me. Please?" I say.

I can see she's a little taken aback by my sudden request. The gears in her head turn for a moment before her face softens. She begins to look more like a girl, barely into her twenties, than a hardened soldier. Doesn't surprise me. Judging by her nervousness when she came to get me from the waiting room, that's what she is.

"Okay. But I doubt anyone in Panem will forget you after the Hunger Games," she says.

I smile softly. "If only that were true."

Calvina frowns and opens her mouth as if to speak, but I've already boarded the train and Anastasia has been herded on as well, and the door is slammed shut before Calvina can say anything.

I smile faintly. There you have it.

Anastasia's face crumples momentarily, but she straightens up almost immediately. Her face firms over and she marches to one of the white-garbed staff. "Where's my room?" she asks. As she's pointed in the right direction, I drift to the window. I feel the train rumble to life under my feet. I draw the blinds away and take a last look at my receding home.

Well, at least one person will remember me. If nothing else, I won't be totally forgotten.

I think that might be the only thing worse than being dead. Dead is just dead, but forgotten is dead and gone.

I rest my chin on the couch and left the blinds slip back. Whatever else happens, I don't want to be gone. I don't want to disappear.

_Please…_


	5. Sing and Listen

**A/N**- The following character was anonymously submitted. Hers was one of the reapings I wrote while completing Starvation 2, so- ha! The wate wasn't a _complete _waste, after all.

By the way: The "Starvation" in the names? It was taken from the "hunger" in _The Hunger Games_. My sister just told me she didn't get that, so I figured I'd clarify.

* * *

Mom and I sing together softly as we cook. It's easier than talking, to be honest. I've never been all that good at making conversation. But singing I can do.

We're lucky to have scrimped enough money together to afford actual bacon. We have two strips apiece and it's taking all my willpower not to grab them right off the frying pan and just toss them, greasy and burning hot, down my throat. This is our special once-a-year treat and it has all of us in a temporary good mood. What with me being eligible for the reaping for the first time today, it won't last.

Dad tries to join in out song with his scratchy baritone, but he can't hold a tune to save his life. He gives up after a couple of lines and I chuckle, dropping a few words to the song. He scowls good-naturedly and settles for tapping his hand against his leg.

I swallow hard. My mouth is watering with the smell of that delicious, fatty, perfect bacon. I'm barely focusing on the song, which is so familiar it rolls off my tongue all on its own. So, I give the anticipation of bacon most of my attention. I'm sure the song is lovely as Mom's rich alto and my clear, young soprano harmonize, but that can wait. Hot meat can't.

"Bacon is ready!" Mom announces, breaking off the song abruptly. A grin spreads even more widely over my face. Mom scoops the six sizzling slices onto a plate and sweeps it to the table. I paw my two slices onto my plate and hesitate. I consider waiting for the eggs to be up like my father is, but decide I just can't. I scoop the slice into my mouth and bite off a fourth of it. I sigh in ecstasy, and my mother bursts out in amused but disbelieving laughter.

"Lavendess, is that how we've taught you to eat?" she exclaims.

I don't respond because I know that I can get away with almost anything today; I'm not above milking it for all it's worth. I'm not one to argue, so when I can get what I want without fighting about it I'll usually take it. My mother smiles a little as I smile angelically and go back to chewing my bite of bacon. I swallow and begin another mouthful, taking my sweet time while chewing and really enjoying it.

Mom pours a glass of milk for me from our uncle's cow. He's a grouchy old coot, so we're lucky he shares his milk with us, even though we give him a few of the eggs from our chickens. Our family is lucky. We have enough not to worry about staying fed if we're careful. But we've worked for what we have. My uncle saved up for ten or fifteen years to buy that cow.

"How did you sleep last night?" my father asks gently. I know what he's asking without actually saying. He wants to know if I slept at all last night or if the fear of the reaping kept me up.

"Okay. It took me a while to get to sleep, but once I did I was fine," I answer. That's not entirely true. I did have some pretty bad dreams, but that's not at all uncommon for me. I've had some terrible nightmares before, and less terrible ones on at least a weekly basis. Last night wasn't any worse than normal for me, so I don't think I need to worry Dad about it.

He smiles at me as Mom scoops some eggs onto his plate, and he sets to eating. She gives me some eggs too before putting the last of it on her own plate. As usual, she's shortchanged herself a bit on breakfast, and Dad and I exchange a glance. We gave up a long time ago on trying to get my mom to take the same amount as she gives us two. She won't do it. And she seems okay, so maybe it's not such a big deal. But it still scares me a little sometimes.

I finish off my bacon, sadly, and start of the eggs. They're pretty bland on their own, since all of our money went to the bacon and there was no cheese to melt into them, but I sprinkle a little salt on them and they're not too bad. The milk's good, too, so overall this is an excellent breakfast. If only it wasn't the reaping. If this was just a normal Saturday and my parents were going to head off to work, leaving me to lounge around the house or run over to a friend's house for the day, it would be perfect. Not that I won't be seeing my friends, not that I didn't get to sleep in, but it's all leading up to the reaping. My first reaping. My stomach clenches.

I jump up from the table, "May I please be excused?"

My mother smiles, "Well, seeing as you're already up, why don't you go ahead?"

I smile angelically back before putting my plate down carefully in the sink and bounding down the hall. I hear my parents chuckling and begin to talk quietly over their eggs. They're nothing if not still madly in love after all these years of marriage.

I turn down the hall to my room. District 3 is heavily industrialized; there's next to no undeveloped space left. It's also highly polluted. I've seen footage of the other Districts before, and most of them are absolutely beautiful. But District 3 is sort of...the armpit of Panem, to put it crudely. I guess it could be worse, but I wouldn't miss the smog.

Anyway, most of the houses got torn down a long time ago to let smaller apartments and condos like ours take their places. My uncle's cow actually lives in his condominium with him. It has its own - very smelly - room.

I pull on my dress for the reaping. It's going to last me all seven reapings because it's reserved for only the most special of occasions, and Mom sewed it specifically so that it could be let out to fit me as I grew. I smooth the midnight-blue velvet down and adjust my lace collar. I widen my green eyes and wiggle my eyebrows a little in the mirror before smiling and heading back out of my room, pulling on my worn white flats as I go.

"Heading out!" I call to my parents, who look up from their eggs and weak coffee.

"Out where?" Dad calls.

"Meeting Leo to walk to the square!" I call back from the door to the hallway that all the different condos open up into.

My father glances at the clock, "But you have almost another hour before you need to leave!"

"I know, Daddy. We're going to just hang out in the square until it's time. I'll meet you there," and then I widen my eyes, just like I did in the mirror a few minutes ago. This time, however, it's to accentuate my innocent looks instead of just for fun. Today of all days, it's enough to convince Dad.

"Alright. Be careful," he sighs. I don't blame him; District 3 can be a bit dangerous if you're not careful. But I am. I'm smarter than that.

"Don't worry, Leo said he'd meet me out in front," I say, blowing them both a kiss before closing the door behind me. I start with a sigh down the long, _long_, spiral staircase to the bottom floor. By the time I finally reach the street level my feet are getting sore, I've missed a step and twisted my ankle, and I'm looking forward to my walk to the reaping less than I was a few minutes ago. But there's Leo now, waving to me from the front door of my building, so I figure I really better stick with the plan.

I wave back and limp to the door with the biggest smile I can force. Leo frowns.

"Are you okay?" he says. He worries too much. He has for a long time, ever since his father died. He doesn't say anything, but I know that he's afraid of loosing the other people he cares about. And there's nothing I can do to help my friend.

"Oh, I'm fine. I just turned my ankle, is all. I'll be fine. You ready to go?" I try to take a normal step forward, but suck in a pained breath and sit down hard right in the middle of the lobby floor. I almost groan. Now Leo is getting worried.

"Come on," he says, his brow furrowed as he helps me to my feet. I try to take a step forward, but I can't. I think I managed to twist it again when I tripped just now. I grimace. This is exactly why I sing music instead of dance to it. On the graceful scale, I don't even register.

Leo sighs and picks me up, carrying me to one of the chairs at the edge of the lobby. This whole time, not one other person stopped to help us. Another great reason to love District 3: it's probably the only place in Panem where you can be surrounded by a huge crowd of people and still be completely alone, for all intents and purposes.

Leo sits me down in the chair and plops into the one right next to me, panting a little bit. He's only two years older than I am, and I'm tall for my age. He managed to cross the lobby with me, but this is no way to get us to the reaping. I feel my heart falling. I was hoping we could visit Allae before we went to the square, since she's doing badly enough for the Peacekeepers to tell her she didn't need to come to the reaping at all. But now we'll be lucky to get there on time at all.

"Sorry," I mutter, rubbing my ankle.

Leo looks at me, "What, for hurting your ankle? Well, I'm going to take a bit of a shot in the dark and guess that you didn't actually do that on purpose. Besides, we can talk just as well here as in the square."

I smile at his gentle sarcasm. He's right of course, but I still feel a little bad. I know he'd rather be out in the little sunshine that filters through the District 3 smog than in the bland lobby of my building. So would I, actually.

Leo stretches in the seat next to me, slouching into a more comfortable position. He folds his hand behind his head and tips it to rest against the wall, "How are you doing, other than the twisted ankle and all?"

I shrug, "Well, you know. I'm nervous. I'd be an idiot if I weren't. But under the circumstances, I'm okay, really."

He nods. He's not as open as he used to be. He doesn't smile as much. But he's still Leo. My friend.

We chat quietly for just a couple minutes before my parents round the last bend in the staircase. My eyes widen and I wave to them.

"Dad, Mom, what are you doing here? I thought you weren't going to be down for another hour," I say, puzzled.

"We decided to just head down to the square once we finished breakfast, since we really didn't have anything to do in the apartment. Are you alright, Strawberry?" Dad asks, frowning. I don't know when people started calling me Strawberry, or why, but it doesn't bother me. It's a nice nickname.

"I twisted my ankle," I answer with a grimace.

My father scoops me up, "There we go. I'll carry you."

At first it's a little embarrassing to be carried around by my dad, but I soon find myself enjoying it. I miss being a little kid, with nothing to worry about except mean teachers in school or getting into a fight with a friend. Back then this scene, the idea of the reaping, would have been unimaginable. It still is, I guess. But it's real. Forty-six kids have already died to prove that.

My father sets me down on the lip of a fountain in District Square. It's made for sitting on and it's going to be packed with lazy kids soon, but there's barely anyone here this early so I've got plenty of room.

District Square is huge. It'll hold all the kids attending the reaping, but only just. District 3 is relatively big and it has the highest population density of any District. The whole District is like one huge city.

There won't be room for parents in the square, so I don't ask my mom and dad to leave yet. Leo likes them well enough, so it's not a problem anyway. We chat aimlessly, not really aware of how fast the hour slips by. People start arriving en masse about fifteen minutes after we get there, and twenty minute to the reaping some Peacekeepers ask my parents to leave. They kiss me, tell me they'll see me after the reaping, and disappear.

"What are you going to do if you're chosen?" Leo asks thoughtfully.

"I don't know. I guess I've never really thought about it," I answer. "I mean, it's not really that likely that I'll be chosen. Actually, it's really unlikely. So it's just easier not to think about it."

"But you should. Just in case, I mean," Leo says. "I know what I would do."

"Really? What?" I ask; interested in a twisted way to find out how my friend would try to win the twisted Hunger Games.

"I'd kill when I had to. I could pick up something easy like a knife pretty quickly. So I'd use it when necessary and avoid people when it's not," he answers matter-of-factly.

"I guess that makes sense," I answer.

"So?"

"So what?"

"So what would _you _do, Lavendess?" Leo asks, I hesitate, but am saved from answering by my friend Emmi calling my name.

She runs up, a bundle of nervous energy. She's always perky, but now add the fear the reaping generates and she's practically vibrating where she stands.

"And I'm so worried about Allae, too!" she finishes desperately. Of course she is. She's not nearly as close to Allae as I am, but they're still classmates and kind of friends. And she knows that it's serious if they gave her a pass from the reaping. I mean the doctors don't even know what it is Allae's got. I don't know how much longer she's going to live, unless by some miracle a Capitol doctor shows up, diagnoses her, and gives her family medicine. But that's never going to happen.

I console Emmi absently, still thinking about Leo's question. What _would _I do, if I had to? I mean, what can I do? Sing, be a good listener. How's that supposed to help me? I can put up a fight when I need to, I guess. Maybe I wouldn't be totally doomed. But who can say? I'm only twelve years old, after all.

About five minutes from the beginning of the reaping I part ways from Leo and Emmi, heading to the twelve-year-olds' section as they leave for the thirteens' and fourteens'.

I listen to the Treaty of Treason with the rising feeling of anger I get every time I hear it. They've twisted everything to make us the villains. Of course, I've heard this before, but it feels different now that they're using these lies as a way to attack me. To make me feel afraid. It's much more personal and much more insulting.

What really bothers me is the mayor. This new mayor that just worships the Capitol. Fat, ugly, and reading every word like she'd give her life to defend our country. I'm sure she would. Our old mayor was arrested and executed a few months ago for publicly stating he thought the Games should be discontinued. I'll miss him. He was a really good guy. And no we have Jillbee Brewers spouting propaganda at us all day.

The escort doesn't make as much of a sensation as she usually does after Mayor Brewers' eccentric speech and I can see she's upset. She's still pretty eye-catching with tattoos covering her arms and leg and her four ponytails, but she's not to used to being upstaged by a mere District citizen, to even the smallest extent. She's a professional, so she carries on like nothing happened, but someone like me who's used to picking up on how others are feeling can tell she's none too happy.

"…and now it's time to choose our lovely girl!" she coos at the end of her speech. She flounces to the reaping ball with even more flair than usual and pulls out a slip of paper. She pauses for a moment to increase suspense and then shouts my name.

Wait a second. She shouted my name. That means…I'm the tribute? I- I guess so. I shakily start toward the platform, but my weakened ankle and my surprise combine to trip me for the third time in two hours.

My chin cracks against the ground and my eyes water. I push myself to my knees and try not to cry. One of the other twelve-year-olds grabs my arm and lifts me to my feet. As I almost fall they sling my arm over their shoulder and help me limp to the stage and labor up the stairs. As I reach the top I look at him, because it's a boy, for the first time and mumble a thank you. He nods silently without even looking up from his feet and slips back into the crowd.

"Whatever is the matter?" the escort exclaims, sounding a little annoyed she had to hold her precious reaping so long so that I could reach the stage.

"I sprained my ankle on the way here," I manage as a Peacekeeper holds on to my elbow gently to keep me on my feet.

And she doesn't even bother to say anything else, just yanks out another piece of paper, from the boys' ball this time, and the only thing that could possibly make this worse happens.

"Leo Emberse!"

My head snaps up. Until now I'd been looking down, specifically avoiding looking at Leo because I knew he'd be devastated. He was losing someone he loved again. But now it's worse. At least before there was a sliver of hope that I might come back. Now one of us has to die.

Leo walks up to the stage slowly but surely, his face held carefully blank and his eyes downcast like mine were until just a moment ago. The cameras will be hard-pressed to get a shot of his face, not to mention one that will let them pick away at the mask he's instinctively slipped on. If I didn't know Leo as well as I do, I'd assume he was just as impassive as he was pretending to be.

I'm sure neither of us really pays attention to the rest of the reaping. Being given the option to die or let your best friend die tends to have that effect, from my experience.

And after what seems like a very long time we're shuffled off the stage to the Justice Building. Leo and I don't look at each other, but I can hear his steps as the Peacekeepers press him to go a little faster than he wants to; and I'm sure he's listens to my breathing, which is heavier than usual as I walk on my sprained ankle. We're as aware of each other as always.

One of my guards turns me to the left as we reach a branch in a long hall, leading me to a door at the end. Leo is lead down the other arm of the T, and the doors close behind us.

I barely have time to take in the bland but functional room before my parents burst through the door.

I can't understand what they're saying, as they're both speaking so quickly and so loudly at the same time. It doesn't help that they're hysterical. I'm just numb. I have to be the unluckiest girl in Panem. I try to focus on the things my parents are saying, but I can't quite hear their whole sentences. I know what they're saying, though. They love me. Please come back, Strawberry. We need you to come back. They don't seem to understand that I can't just smile and promise and make this all fix itself. There's every chance that I will not come back. That I will die. And there's only so much I can do to prevent it.

All of a sudden the peacekeepers are pulling my family away. They scream and fight, but it's not much good. Before I can even shout once more that I love them, they disappear.

I sit on the couch, staring at my empty hands in my lap. If anything, I feel even number than before. But Emmi falls in through the door and I have to pull myself together so she doesn't break down and just lose it. She's panicking, I can tell, and the words coming out of her mouth are almost gibberish. I try to calm her down, but she's slowly being whipped into more of a frenzy. And I feel what could be my last moments with my friend slipping between my fingers.

And then they're gone.

A Peacekeeper has to actually pick Emmi up and carry her away, and I just collapse on the couch and cry. This is all wrong. I may never see her again, or my parents, and now my given time with them was wasted.

I'll never get to see Allae again. At least, probably not. I'll be away for at least a month, probably more. And but that time she'll be gone. There's no way for them to get her here.

But…maybe she won't be. Maybe she'll hold on. I sit up slowly, wiping my eyes and nose. If Allae can just hold on, I can save her. I can buy her whatever she needs. If I win, she won't have to die.

But…what about Leo? I shake my head. If Leo wins, he'll help Allae for me, I'm sure. So now I have a purpose. I have to get somebody from District 3 home.

The door opens and I look up in surprise; I wasn't expecting anyone else to visit me. But I realize it's that boy, the one who helped me up to the stage. He's still avoiding my eyes as he sits down.

"Thanks," I say quietly. "For helping me. And thanks for coming here, too."

"Yeah. I thought you might need another friend on a day like this," he says quietly.

I draw my knees up to my chin and nod a little bit. "Can I ask you to do something for me?"

"What is it?"

"Find Allae Painter. She's in New East Hospital down south about twenty minutes from here. It's a straight walk down the main road. Tell her not to give up. Tell her that she needs to hold on, because I'm going to come back, or Leo is, and we're going to save her."

He nods and I give him a hug on impulse. He returns it briefly and walks quietly out the door. I don't ask for his name. I don't think he's really interested in giving it. He's one of those rare people doing something good because he knows he should. He's not doing it for gratification, or in the hopes I'll pay him back if I win. He's just doing good.

I sit alone and wait till the Peacekeepers come to take me away. As they shuffle Leo and me toward the train I finally sneak a glance at him. And then I just can't help myself and I cry.


	6. The Chance To Fight

**A/N**- Sorry for the long wait. I was out of town for a week, and then my beta's best friend got married. So much business! But the chapter's here now, so yay! This character was submitted anonymously.

* * *

My mother shakes me awake rather than calling from the kitchen or singing me awake. That's my mother for you. Very quiet.

"Mm… morning," I mumble. She smiles a little and sits on the foot of my bed.

"It's reaping morning," she says bluntly. "Since you're… eligible this year, I wanted to make you something for breakfast. We have eggs or oatmeal. Which one would you prefer?"

"Have we got any sugar?" I ask.

"Mhm."

"Then oatmeal, please," I say. My mother nods in response, smiles sadly, and stands. She drifts out of my room in the melancholy way she has, leaving me staring at the ceiling.

I've never quite understood why everyone makes sure to cook something special on reaping day. I guess it's in an attempt to cheer up the kids who are in danger. Seems like a waste to me. The good food is mostly lost on nervous stomachs. I don't protest, though. I like oatmeal. If the reaping means I'll get some extra sugar in it… well, at least some good id coming out of this "holiday".

I sigh. Sugared oatmeal. Sleeping in. Life in District 3 is based around small pleasures. Small pleasures and big problems. Really, District 3 is where Panem living hits the fan. District 1 and 2 are nowhere near as nice as the Capitol, but they still don't deal with our crowded, overpopulated living conditions and dirtied air. Thanks to factory accidents, rampant crime, and intense pollution, District 3 can "boast" the second-lowest (though we're tied with District 12) life expectancy. Only people in District 11, where people die at an average age of 37 to 39 can beat us.

Great. That's _really _something to be proud of right there.

My family is fairly well off, so there's a good chance my mother will live to her fifties or sixties, unless there's an accident in the battery factory where she works. We're by no means rich, but we have our small apartment to ourselves and keep it clean; and the part of the city where we live is mostly free from gang activity. All in all, I have not nearly so much to complain about as most District 3 people do.

Still, it's hard to really be thankful when you know things could be so much better. They would be, if the Capitol distributed wealth evenly. As it is, they pay us just enough that our economy won't collapse. If that happened, they'd be out of supplies, you see. Other districts may supply us with the raw materials, but it's the burden of District 3 to make something out of it. We're the real creators, the real backbone.

Well. Aren't I just Mister District Spirit today? A little ironic, considering that this is the worst day of the year to live in Panem.

I knit my finger together under my head, allowing myself to wake up slowly. I'm not in any real hurry. If my mother hasn't even started cooking yet, the reaping isn't too soon. I have some time before I need to meet up with Lavendess.

I roll over, frowning. Lavendess. _Now _I'll be under a black cloud all morning. I have a much easier time worrying about people close to me than about myself. At least I know I can trust me to take care of myself. But someone like Lavendess… she wouldn't have a chance.

Would I? The thought had never really occurred to me. Being thrown into that arena was such a distant idea; it didn't even seem possible. It was certainly a huge fear. It was almost physically present, like some wild animal hiding in the shadows in the corner of my room. It was distinct, but at the same time, it was too fantastical to believe. The thought that I might be sent into the arena was a ridiculous idea, so I'd never thought about it logically.

Would I possibly be able to survive in the arena? I think I might. As a fairly resourceful, fairly strong, fairly intelligent person, I don't think would be impossible. I start laying out a strategy, more from a twisted desire to dwell on the danger than any actually intent to develop a workable strategy.

_Let's see... Well, I don't know many survival skills. I guess I'd have to go on the offensive relatively quickly. _I wince. "The offensive" means killing. "The offensive" is nowhere I would ever choose to be. Unfortunately, there is nothing even remotely resembling voluntary about the Hunger Games. If you are chosen, you go. And that's that.

Would I be able to kill? The question bobs at the edge of my mind. Maybe? Yes? No? I shove it away for two reasons. First, because I really don't want to think about it, and second because I doubt I'll really be able to come up with an answer anyway. Who can honestly say they know, totally and completely, what they would do when they had so much to lose? I don't know that anyone can say they wouldn't sacrifice a total stranger for themselves. Some boundaries can be drawn before you ever have the need to cross the line, but I don't know that that's one of them.

_So, you get in. The Games start. You need to get a hold of some sort of weapon. A knife seems like it would be easiest. So, a knife, ideally. If not... you wing it with something else. I think you can handle it. And when you meet people... well, you try to put that off. _

I sigh. "Try to avoid thinking about it" is no real answer. But to be honest, I'd rather spend all my life wondering what I would have done than to actually be reaped.

Finally, I stretch in bed and sit up. Mom's probably about done with the oatmeal now, so I might as well get out of bed.

I head out into the hall. I only live on the third floor, so it's not too much of a walk to get down into the lobby. There's an elevator, but it's six credits per ride, and I don't have enough money to spend on things like that. Only factory managers and their kids do things like ride elevators. Then again, they also tend to own several floors of an apartment building, so they're not really short on money.

"I'll see you after the reaping, Leo," my mother says. I nod and let her give me a kiss on the cheek. Not all of District 3 gets the day off, unfortunately. Even on reaping days, the Capitol consumes a ridiculous amount of products. If District 3 stopped entirely, I think they might face a minor apocalypse every reaping day. Half the adults still get the day off, but this is not my mother's year. Next year it will be.

I give her a quick hug and start down the stairs, my black dress shoes squeaking a little on the worn linoleum. I grimace. That's going to get annoying, and fast.

District 3 is a hive of activity, even so early on a reaping day. Most of the people milling around and swelling back and forth probably aren't headed there, but it's still an effort to push through them. I'm not worried about being late (that's more Lavendess' thing), but I do keep up a pretty good clip. I like to keep moving when there's still a goal to be reached, even if it means some aimless milling around once I get there.

I don't bother trying to be polite. You learn not to, growing up in a place as packed as District 3. Polite means you don't get anywhere. Of course, I'm not suggesting you walk around punching out anyone who happens to stumble into your path, but you can't be afraid to apply a little elbow if you want to accomplish anything. I never am. Usually, it's not a problem, because I'm not the only one. Today though, people seem to resent being shoved around. I guess I can understand that, what with it being reaping day and all, but I don't want to be late meeting Lavendess.

Really, she worries me. I try to tell myself that fretting over it won't fix anything, but I can't help it. I don't have a lot of friends anymore, and I have the natural tendency to obsess over the people who I'm close to; so, I guess it makes sense that today I would worry about Lavendess.

Although, it's really not so natural after all. I wasn't like this before my father died. I guess it was watching him get sick that really changed me. The doctors didn't know what he had. There was nothing they could do. Since there was nothing they could do, there was nothing my mother and I could do. We had to watch him die, completely powerless to help. Now I can't help this deep-rooted desire to watch over everyone who matters to me, to control what happens to them. I'm not going to lose anyone else I love while it's within my power to save them.

Not that reaping day affords me any of the control I crave. So, now all I can do is worry.

"Hey, watch it!" someone exclaims. Lost in my thoughts, I've bumped into her and made her drop her bags.

"Sorry, sorry," I mutter, bending down to help her collect the groceries I knocked out of her arms.

"I can do it myself," she snaps. I pull my hands back, frustrated.

"Okay. Excuse me for trying to help," I growl. She flips her hair over her shoulder and glides off, her dignity clearly wounded. I growl to myself. Typical teenage girl, making a fuss out of something and then getting catty when you try to help. I bet she just wanted to make a scene. Honestly, no one needs this sort of thing today.

I grumble to myself as I continue on my way towards Lavendess' apartment. I don't quite trust her to wander through District 3 on her own, although I have to admit she hasn't gotten herself hurt yet, so we decided to meet at her place instead of mine. Lavendess' apartment building is nicer than mine, anyway, what with her two-parent income. But I don't really envy Lavendess her nicer apartment as much as I do her two living parents.

I shove the thought away. I don't want to envy Lavendess at all. Nothing like that should be capable of coming between us, so I don't plan to let it do so.

The tall, plain buildings slip by, each one identical to the next. There's not a lot of architectural beauty in District 3, which was designed to pack the large population into a very small area, to leave as much space as possible for factories. Well, it certainly worked. Living conditions may be pathetic, but they pack quite a bit of pathetic into a small area.

Soon enough I pass 57th Street and turn to Lavendess' apartment. The lobby is huge, so it takes me a moment to figure out that she's not down yet. Well, I guess I shouldn't have worried about being late, then. I sit down on a bench near the door to wait. I keep my eyes fixed on the stairs, but my mind soon begins to wander.

All of a sudden I catch Lavendess rounding the corner of the staircase. I wave for a moment to catch her attention, and she smiles. She starts across the large room to where I'm standing and I hurry to meet her. It doesn't take long to realize she's hobbling a little. I frown. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I just turned my ankle, is all. I'll be fine. You ready to go?" Lavendess says. Her voice is full of forced brightness, and I can tell she's trying to hide the fact that her ankle hurts. I'm about to protest when she tries to take a step forward. Her left foot comes down a little funny and she falls, hissing in pain.

Maybe my worry for Lavendess is more justified than one might expect. I mean she couldn't even walk down the stairs from her apartment without hurting herself.

"Come on," I say, looping an arm under her shoulders and helping her to her feet. Lavendess takes one more tentative step and can't put any weight on her left foot. I sigh and lift her into my arms, struggling to carry her through the crowd milling around before the reaping. Lavendess is not all that big, but neither am I. It's pretty unlikely I'll be able to carry her all the way to the reaping this way.

I set Lavendess down as gently as possible in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs at the edge of the lobby and then sprawl into one myself. Lavendess looks a little crestfallen, and I'm assuming she feels guilty for messing up our pre-Reaping plans, which is silly.

"Sorry," she mutters, massaging her twisted ankle.

I look at her sideways. "What, for hurting your ankle? Well, I'm going to take a bit of a shot in the dark and guess you didn't actually do that on purpose. Besides, we can talk just as well here as in the square."

She smiles a little, but looks unconvinced. I decide it's best just to change the subject.

"How are you doing, other than the twisted ankle and all?" I ask.

"Well, you know. I'm nervous. I'd be an idiot if I weren't. But under the circumstances, I'm okay, really."

I nod and sit in silence. What is there to say to that? Lavendess and I sink into our own thoughts for a moment. Neither of us is really a huge talker, but that's all right. We're perfectly happy just to sit and think with each other.

"How's your mom?" Lavendess asks. I shrug.

"She's okay. Worried, of course, but she had to go to work today. I know she'd rather be at the square in case… anything happened," I respond. Lavendess nods.

"Yeah. But they'd tell her if you were taken, right? They'd let her come down and see you?"

I shrug again. "I don't know. I hope so. But I really rather never have to find out, to be honest." Lavendess smiles a little in response, but before she has time to say anything she catches sight of her parents from the other side of the room. She straightens up and waves them toward us. They cross the lobby as quickly as they can manage.

"Dad, Mom, what are you doing here? I thought you weren't going to be down for another hour," she says.

"We decided to go down to the square once we finished breakfast, since we really didn't have anything to do in the apartment. Are you alright, Strawberry?" Her father responds, looking concerned. That's Mr. Singfern for you. He's a family man, through and through, always looking out for his wife and daughter. He reminds me a lot of my dad, who insisted on walking me to school every morning when I was little. He knew the streets of District 3 were no place for a six-year-old boy to be wandering alone. Luckily, the gang activity at my school was low, but it was still nice to have your tall, strong father around as bully determent.

Man, I miss him.

"I twisted my ankle," Lavendess says, wincing demonstratively. Her father leans in and lifts her up into his arms, much more smoothly that I would have been able to.

"There we go. I'll carry you," he says. With Lavendess wrapping her arms around her father's neck, we set off toward the District Square. It's not a long walk, but it is a congested one. When we finally get there, Mr. Singfern puts Lavendess down gently, letting her sit on the edge of a fountain. It's broken (of course it's broken; why would the Capitol spend money to upkeep a fountain out in the Districts?) so she's in no danger of getting her dress wet. We talk amongst ourselves until the Peacekeepers shoo the Singferns out of the main square to make room for more terrified children. They kiss her and leave without a fuss.

As I look at Lavendess I remember something I was thinking about earlier. Well, two things. First, what I would do if I were reaped. Second, how someone as helpless as Lavendess would do if she had to fend for herself. So, I decide to ask her.

"What are you going to do if you're chosen?" I ask her. She looks up, surprised. I guess she hadn't thought of it. I'm not surprised. Much as I love Lavendess, I'll be the first one to tell you she's a little too sweet and innocent for her own good. Well, most of the time. Not much sets her off, but it's impressive when it happens.

"I don't know. I guess I've never really thought about it," she begins.

Well. I was spot on with that one.

"I mean it's not really that likely I'll be chosen. Actually, it's really unlikely. So, it's just easier not to think about it," Lavendess concludes.

"But you should. Just in case I mean," I urge her. "I know what I would do."

"Really? What?" she asks. She looks halfway between curious to hear how I'd protect myself and a bit disturbed that I'd put any thought into this. I ignore the part of her that is reproachful. Lavendess doesn't quite understand the way of the world. She's sheltered. It's not her fault she doesn't realize how important it is to think about these possibilities.

"I'd kill when I had to," I proclaim, with a lot more certainty than I had this morning. "I could pick up something easy like a knife pretty quickly. So, I'd use it when necessary and avoid people when it's not."

"I guess that makes sense," she concedes.

"So?" I prompt.

"So, what?" Lavendess responds, looking a little uncomfortable.

"So, what would _you _do, Lavendess?" I say. She deliberates for a moment and before she can respond one of her friends dashes up, squealing with intense nervous energy.

"Strawberry, Strawberry, Strawberry! I'm _so _glad I found you! I thought maybe you got really sick and they didn't let you come to the reaping. Just like Allae!"

I wince a little as Lavendess' energetic friend continues her tangent. I don't know Allae well myself, but I know she's another one of Lavendess' friends, and that she's sick. From the one time Lavendess introduced us, in Allae's cramped little hospital room, I think she has the same disease my father did. We kept it pretty quiet, and my father always did his best to act like nothing was wrong when we had guests around, so I doubt Lavendess has made the connection. I don't have the heart to explain to her what it is, because there's still no cure for it. If she finds out there's nothing to be done it will break her heart. Allae told me privately that she's informed Lavendess that she's getting treatment that might help, and thinks that lying to our friend is better than forcing her to live without any sort of hope. I'm sorry to say it, but I think she's right. Lavendess needs protection.

"And I'm so worried about Allae, too!" the girl squeals to end. Apparently discussing about Allae made up the body of their rather one-sided "discussion". Really, I don't know the girl, but I doubt she ever lets anyone get a word in edgewise.

Before Lavendess and I get another chance to talk, the reaping begins. I shuffle to my own section, a little disappointed not to have an answer to my question. It occupies my thoughts as our new pig of a neighbor reads the Treaty of Treason, gives some speech, and hands the stage over to someone who refers to herself as our "escort". Instead of the mayor drawing the unlikely kids' names this year, it's the Capitol woman. Jillbean, or something else ridiculous.

"Lavendess Singfern!"

No.

_This can't be happening. Please- I can't- not again!_

I whip around, desperately trying to find Lavendess in the middle of the twelve-year-olds. I can see others doing the same, filled with horror and fascination, trying to find the walking dead among us. Even though Lavendess is taller than your average twelve-year-old girl, the people clamoring to get a look at her stop me from picking her out until she limps into the open space before the stage. One of the boys is supporting her, with her arm over her shoulder, and I'm wracked by a confused combination of fury and guilt.

I should be the one helping her up to the stage. But then again, I shouldn't, because she should _never _have been taken.

The escort drill Lavendess on her injury, looking annoyed with her. My hands clench into fists by my side, but there's nothing I can do.

_There's nothing I can do._

I feel like I'm going to throw up. I can't do this again; I can't watch someone I love die while I sit around at home, powerless to save them. But what am I supposed to do? I can't-

"Leo Emberse!"

_Yes._

Maybe I should be upset. Maybe I should be scared. I know Lavendess is. I avoid meeting her eyes as I start toward the stage, carefully composing my face. I don't want anybody to know how I feel. I don't want the cameras to pick up the savage joy that pulls at the corners of my mouth. Because by sending me into the lion's den, they've saved me from it.

I won't be helpless, this time. This time I will fight. I will die getting Lavendess home to District 3, or I will die trying.

It takes all my focus to keep from grinning as they close up the ceremony. I keep trying to talk myself down into a more appropriate form of anger than this manic glee, I have just been sentenced to die, after all, but I can't be convinced. I'll have the chance I never had with my father. It's worth it. It's very worth it.

I'm led into some sort of waiting room, down the right arm of a T-shaped hall. I have no visitors, so I assume they didn't tell my mother what happened to me, after all. I guess someone will just tell her when they see her after work. It stokes my anger. My poor mother. I'm going to make her proud.

None of my furious joy has receded since they shoved me in here an hour ago, so I'm a little worried that I won't be able to hide it from Lavendess, but she bursts into tears as soon as she sees me. That's sobering enough. I wrap and arm over her shoulder and steer her toward the train, as she buries her face into my shoulder and sobs.

Lavendess won't have anything more to cry about. Not while I have anything to say about it.


	7. The Right Ones

**A/N**- Happy Easter, my dear readers! The following character was created by demiblood22.

* * *

"Hey, you!"

_Well, rats._

I drop the small package and run. If I leave the goods behind, the shopkeeper might not bother chasing after me. There's a good chance he hasn't seen my face under the hood of my cape, and I'll be safe if he doesn't get a clear look. No, it isn't worth the risk this morning. I can filch something else, maybe from one of the fancy houses the Capitol has set up for the lucky kids who win the Hunger Games.

Well, you have to use "lucky" with a grain of salt. Wrianin Abro, the first victor, has proved soundly that it's not the life for everyone, but Eewyn Carre hasn't done as badly. Add to that the celebrity status and the nearly unlimited pension, it seems like it could be a good deal for the right person. Well, I hope "the right person" wins this year. It's too amazing a gift to give to the wrong person. Not to mention the wrong person will just live in misery anyway. Yes, you've got to know what you want before you decide on a course of action for the Hunger Games.

My feet pound against the wet street. We had a warm summer rain last night and District 4 is humid all year round, so the whole District has an air of damp to it. I wouldn't mind if it didn't pose a practical difficulty to indulging in one of my… hobbies.

Eventually all sounds of the angry shopkeeper fade behind me. I keep up my pace though, because I enjoy the feeling of power I get with the road whipping by under my pounding feet. Being fast is one of the things I pride myself on. It's one of my less destructive traits, and one that I'm free to show off. Unlike my constant desire to steal stuff (but only small or unimportant stuff, or course; I'd never steal from someone who needed the income badly), no one can really object to me being a fast runner. Except, of course, when it helps me with stealing packets of spices from street vendors, but we don't need to dwell on that.

Once I start getting a small stitch in my side I slow to a loping jog. I debate for a moment whether I really want to drop by Victors' Village or if I should just go home to the breakfast my mother is probably up and making by this point. Eventually I decide to go home after my detour. Nothing like a little pilfering of useless trinkets to take the edge of one's nerves.

Once I've made my decision and caught my breath, I can take in the passing streets. District 4's really not such a bad place, if you think to look. Most of the houses are small, the shacks of fishermen, but there's a sort of beauty in that, too. A dwelling doesn't need to be big or fancy, just full of good memories and a bright future. That's what really makes beauty.

And every one of these houses holds a mystery inside of it. Who are the people who live here? What brought them to be under this roof together? In fifty years, where will their stories have lead? Yes, I could spend hours walking the (always slightly sandy, even in the District Square) streets of District 4. Especially now, with the buttery sun rising drowsily above the silent horizon.

If only it weren't wet.

I fiddle with the flint in my pocket. Maybe if I had one of those fancy Capitol fire-boxes that produce a small flame at the spin of a funny little switch I'd have an easier time starting a fire today, but I don't. I'll have to do things the old-fashioned way, sadly. Oh, well. I guess it's bad karma. Arson, no matter how minor, _is _illegal.

I whip my cape off my shoulders. It's not a cold morning, so my light jacket will more than suffice. Since I no longer need the cape's hood to obscure my face, I'd rather carry it. District 4 in the summer gets muggy, and it gets there fast. There's not much wind today, either. This reaping is going to be a scorcher.

As I head down the street, I'm reminded again how big my home is. For a person like myself, who struggles between a desire to slow down and enjoy everything and a desire to compete and accomplish, the long sameness of walking can get frustrating quickly once it stops being interesting. I force myself back into my game, imagining life stories behind every door.

_That red one is the home of... Wale and Amphetrite Hermann. They have three kids . Wale is a pearl diver and Amphetrite teaches tenth year at school. They're forty-four and forty years old. They got married when Wale was twenty-one. Actually, they eloped, much to the fury of Amphetrite's parents._

I smirk, self-deprecating. My stories tend to take a turn for the melodramatic. But now I'm on a roll and don't care to stop.

_Amphetrite's parents launched a search for her, combing through the entire District. They didn't find the newlyweds because they'd holed up in a friend's basement. Two weeks later Amphetrite turned eighteen and was free from her parents' will. All the same, she and her husband lived in fear, for she doubted the laws would hold her angry parents and brothers from hurting her husband. When she became pregnant soon after, she also began to fear for her child._

_It turned out Amphetrite's worries were well founded. One of her brothers attacked Wale in a back alley one night and nearly killed him. While her husband was too injured to work, she became part of the staff at the school. This led to her getting a job teaching... the history of Panem. And her family... stopped bugging them after that point. For some reason._

I frown, more than a little unsatisfied with my ending. At the same time, I don't like the idea of leaving Amphetrite and Wale with an unhappy ending. Oh, well. I shove the imperfect drama away, having caught sight of the Victor's Village gates looming in the distance. Now I have something real to focus on: the execution of a rather delicate plan.

Everyone knows Victor's Village is bugged. While the Capitol wouldn't spend money on a security system covering the _entire _District, they don't mind at all spending a little money to monitor an area so full of expensive furniture or electronics. Of course, I won't be taking anything quite so expensive, but I doubt I'd get away with it if caught. Instead I stop in a clump of trees out of view of the wall, drop my cloak, and pull my work uniform up over my head. Hundreds of people work in the canneries, so unless they get a shot of my face I should be impossible to identify. I like to take advantage of this when I go... discount shopping.

I scuttle from behind the clump of bushes and up the street to the gates. I've left the residential and commercial sections of the District far enough behind that it's unlikely anyone will catch me going in. Still, haste is never inadvisable. Plus, stealing stuff makes me nervous. A good nervous, but nervous all the same. It makes me want to move quickly, so I do.

My feet in their leather shoes pad down the manicured dirt road. The thin coat of sand that permeates most of (the almost entirely coastal, since the District is very long and thin) District 4 roads is increased to a much thicker layer here, as Victors' Village is right on the shore. Really nice beachfront property, and all, with the sea four seconds away from your door. Sounds nice to me, but they don't sell many houses like that. It takes some sort of expensive Capitol engineering to build a sturdy house on sand, so most live just barely on solid dirt or whatever it is they usually build on top of. Come to think of it, I can't recall a single building in District 4 more than a mile from the water.

All of a sudden I realize I've completely lost my train of thought and mentally scold myself. I return to the thick padding of sand, which is both a blessing and a curse for me. A blessing, because it means I can run almost suddenly. A curse, because my footprints will show only too clearly, and sand is a little more difficult than dirt to run on.

I slip my knife out of my pocket. I don't expect to need it, actually, but it's probably a good idea to get it out anyway.

I push one of the fancy gates open. While a wall surrounds the Victors' Village, it's just for show. To mock us for being separated from our elite. Too bad they don't actually exist yet. In spite of this, the Village isn't locked. It hasn't been, any of the times I've been here. Since they haven't improved their security, I have to assume that a teenage girl stealing knickknacks is not their highest concern.

The Village is deserted, of course, and I stand for a moment, pulling my hood further down over my head and trying to decide which house to raid. I decide on the nearest one, to save time. I jog up to it and through the door.

I've been in this one before, so the raw luxury of the place is no surprise. Even with tarps draped over the furniture to keep it from fading, you can tell it's all fancy and expensive. I finger a dusty crystal bowl without really considering taking it. It won't burn well. Of course, I _still _want to take it, but I resist the urge.

I consider taking a rug or a curtain, but again decide against it. Idly curious, I drift to one of the tarps hung on the wall and pull it down, revealing a painting. It appears to be Capitol mass-produced art. I decide it's probably not valuable enough to lead any unfortunate security guard who does nothing but monitor footage of the inside of empty houses to try to find me, so I slip it under my arm.

My foraging done, I turn for the door. In the light filtering in through a window, I catch something funny out of the corner of my eye. Of course, I turn back to take a second look. It takes a second to process what's wrong, but once it does, my heart speeds up.

One square of floor stands out from the others. The corner, caught in a beam of light from the windowpane, is free from dust. Like something had been sitting there for a long time, and only recently been moved. Now that I've noticed it, I scan the floor. If I strain my eyes a little, I can catch sight of similar patches of clean floor, even in the areas not lit up by the solitary beam of light slipping past the plain curtains that cover the window.

Someone's been here. And pretty dang recently.

"Wh-" I hear someone begin from behind me.

No, not recently. They're here _now._

_Well, rats._

I swear loudly and whirl around, letting go of my uniform hood to punch whomever it is, because they've taken hold of my shoulder. My fist meets a face (which is painful for both) and the mystery person lets go of me in shock. I sprint for the door, almost dropping the painting on my way out. I hear footsteps (several pairs, I note with alarm) following me.

Have I misjudged the Capitol? Did they decide that I was not to be tolerated and put a security team in place to catch me? Will I-

One of my pursuers catches a hold of my wrist and pulls back just hard enough to force me to stop. I spin on the heel of my foot and aim another punch, but this time they are ready for me, and catches my hand. I realize, cursing myself silently, that I've dropped my knife. Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_

Before I realize it, whoever it is that has my arms lets go of one and tugs my hood back over my head. "You wanna get caught?" he hisses. "Honestly!"

Details suddenly pierce my panicked brain. Whoever this is has cloth tied over his face and a hood similar to mine obscuring his hair. The only detail I can make out is that he's male, from the tone of his voice, and his green eyes peeking over his mask. The two other who followed me are dressed similarly. All of them are wearing very nondescript clothes that look shabby enough that I wouldn't be surprised if the boys had sewn them together themselves.

I slowly begin to put it together. The boys must be here for the same reason I am. To steal. Only, judging by the blank spots on the floor, they're working on a slightly larger scale. Furniture.

I yank my arm away, pulling my hood further down over my face. Now that the fear of being caught by Peacekeepers is mostly abated, I'm beginning to get angry. My face was exposed for almost twenty seconds. I can't imagine that the cameras didn't get a look at my face. Though I may not be worth launching a fruitless search through hundreds of cannery workers to attempt to catch, I can't imagine I'll get off the hook now that they know whom I am. Maybe it's partly my fault for letting go of my hood, but I wouldn't have done anything so stupid if… whoever he is hadn't scared me.

Speaking of which.

I shove the two who followed me out of the way, storming back toward the open door of the house. Whoever it is that tripped me up is going to get an earful at least, and probably a faceful. Of my fists, in case that was unclear.

"Oi!" one of them exclaims. I march back, through the door, into the gloom of the house. Three of the male robbers have come out of hiding, one of whom is rubbing his face and cursing. Maybe it's a little dangerous for me to charge in and start shouting at some outlaws I don't even know, but I'm the sort of person who feels everything vividly. While I'm usually a pretty nice person to be around, I get swept away when I'm angry.

"What was that for?" he exclaims angrily before I have a chance to begin my tirade.

"Thanks to you my face must have been exposed to the cameras for twenty seconds!" I snap. "They know who I am now! Do you have _any _idea what they might do to me?"

"Look, it's not my fault you let go of your hood," he begins.

"It's not? I only dropped it when you scared me out of my wits!" I exclaim.

"Well, maybe you wouldn't be so twitchy if you weren't breaking into houses to steal stuff," he challenges.

"You're a fine one to talk!" I growl. "Where'd you take the furniture anyway?"

"Onto the roof," he says flatly.

_Um, what ?_ Is my eloquent first reaction.

"Um, what?" Is my eloquent first response.

"It's on the roof," he repeats, looking a little impatient with me for not understanding why he'd do something as everyday and normal as drag the furniture of an empty house onto the roof. Right. Because I'm the one being odd here.

"But… _why _is it on the roof?" I ask, still a little thrown off.

"Why not?" he says with a shrug. "You have to do _something _on reaping day. Why not a prank? Better than sitting at home and worrying about things."

A prank? Slowly my adrenaline is fading. So these guys aren't thieves. Shoot. Anger is turning to embarrassment and worry about the security cameras. I adjust the small painting under my arm and turn on my heel, grumbling to myself. None of the boys try to stop me, but I hear a few nasty insults I assume are directed toward me. I don't know that I blame them. The boy I punched seems to be the leader of their little gang.

Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, this whole trip has cost me a lot of time. The incident with the boys didn't really take too long, but I underestimated how long the entire venture would take. I probably have less than an hour until the reaping. I curse and pour on the speed, pausing only to exchange the painting for my cloak. I throw the cloak over my shoulder and strip my light uniform jacket. It's too warm for layers now, and my exercise has warmed me up even more.

I crash through the door to my house and curse loudly. Twenty minutes until the reaping, and I still need to get dressed and get to the square.

"Daphine!" My mother scolds, looking scandalized by my swearing.

"Sorryloveyougottagetdressed!" I yelp, bolting down the hall without a hesitation.

"Running late, Day?" calls my little brother Polly as he straightens his collar. I snarl something very rude without really thinking about it and earn another brief scolding from my mother which I only barely hear as I slam the door to my door shut and dive for the nice clothes folded on the foot of my bed. I throw off my uniform and shove it into the corner before practically diving headfirst into my black pencil skirt. I miss a button on my blouse, so it ends up crooked, but I don't have time to fix it. I slap on a pair of my mother's old sandals that aren't falling apart quite as badly as mine are and rocket out of my room.

"Come on, we need to go!" I yelp, seeing we only have about ten minutes to get to the square. I grab Polly by the arm and rush out the door, almost knocking him over. My mother follows; holding something in a white napkin I assume is my breakfast.

When we get there, the square is already packed. I give my mother a kiss on the cheek and snatch my food before hurling myself into the section marked for seventeen-year-olds. I don't have time to find my friend Kerry before the mayor opens the reaping and I instantly feel guilty. I promised I'd meet her here. Oh, well. There's nothing I can do now.

They've added someone called an escort this year. From the other reapings I've watched so far, ours is one of the more normal. While chubby and energetic enough to surprise even me, she dresses like a normal human being and her accent isn't extreme.

"Thank you all for your time," the escort, who introduces herself as Marian, says to close her speech. "Let's pick our two lucky contestant now, shall we? I'm sure they'll do their very best!"

Lucky. Will they be? Will this year's children be the sort who can thrive on the Hunger Games?

"And our young lady is… Daphine Ryte!"

_Well, rats._

I move towards the stage, trying to fight the flighty feeling in my stomach. I'm not the sort to allow myself to look scared (or vulnerable in any way, really) in front of a crowd, so I try to force myself to look composed. I refuse to look at the crowd, knowing my family and friends would break me quite nicely at the moment. When I climb onto the stage Marian gives me a huge smile and a warm handshake.

"Alright! Wonderful. Now let's choose our young man!"

She moves to the male reaping bowl and pulls a slip of paper from it. "Tris Kelley!"

There's a loud murmur of surprise. I guess whoever this Tris is, everyone knows about him. The name sounds a little familiar to me, too, but I can't put my finger on where I might know him. I catch sight of movement from my section, and the boy slowly makes his way out, face contorted with a mix of contrasting emotions.

As he mounts the stage he gives me a silent glare, and I notice a bruise forming on his left cheek. Realization hits. This must be the boy I punched earlier.

Perfect. I'm already off to a bad start with the boy from my District. I can tell this will be a fun Hunger Games.

And I _can't believe _I just said that.

"Here are your District 4 contestants this year, Panem! I think we'll have a winner," Marian crows, initiating applause with her own zealous clapping. People immediately begin clearing the square and Peacekeepers take Tris and me by the elbow to lead us away.

We all know the procedure. We'll get some time with our families and friends. Not enough, but some. Then we'll be sent to the Capitol. Then they'll send us through some pre-Games rubbish. Then we'll fight.

The room has nothing but a couch in it, I realize as they close the door behind me. This room must be used only for tributes' final goodbyes. It must be a lonely little room the rest of the year, then.

"Day?" Polly's voice trembles from behind me. I turn and see my family gathered on the far side of the room. While Polly and my mother look devastated, my father just looks… mystified. Of course he does. He's always been oblivious towards my brother and me. I try to feel some sort of anger or regret for this, but can't seem to summon anything. My father and I will always be mostly ambivalent towards each other, I suppose. And that's that.

My mother and brother, on the other hand, I do care about. Very much so. I walk the short distance across the room and wrap my arms around them. I can feel my mother shaking and gasping, and Polly is holding me so tightly he's about the snap me in half. I try to think of something, anything to say to them that will give them hope. Nothing comes to mind, so I decide to wing it.

"No giving up on me, okay?" I answer. "That's stupid. I need you guys rooting for me while I'm gone. If anybody tries to offer their condolences or whatever, you shut them up. You tell anybody who will listen that I am _not _giving up, you hear me? Because I won't. I… I've got the right stuff to win this, and you know it. I'm fast and smart and-" I start to add 'good with a knife', but catch myself just in time. I tend to forget they don't know about my knife or my thievery or my burning things. I wish I could have told them, but they wouldn't approve and I don't want to stop.

"And I've got people I'm fighting to come back to," I say finally. "How can I lose?"

My family nods. A few more tearful pleadings and bravado-infused reassurances are exchanged, and then they leave, casting backwards glances over their shoulders.

Man. Poor Mom. Poor Polly.

But I don't have much time to think on it, because Kerry and Torres come in, looking breathless and teary.

"You idiot!" Kerry whispers. "Why did you have to be late? Why today, why today?"

"I… doubt it would have changed things," I murmur darkly. Kerry doesn't try to argue, and instead just throws her arms around my shoulders, beginning to shake quietly with tears. I sit her down slowly on the couch; afraid she won't be able to keep herself upright much longer.

I'm a little surprised at her show of emotion. While Kerry is one of my best friends, she's also incredibly shy. Even I have only drawn her a small bit out of her shell. Nobody knows her all the way, I don't think, except for maybe Torres.

I look up from Kerry to Torres where he stands against the wall, looking torn. That's Torres for you. He's the happy medium, incorporating just a little of my vibrant energy and a little of Kerry's quiet kindness into one big pool of balance. I'm sure he's fighting between the desire to break down and the desire to keep being strong for Kerry. After a moment I see the resolve in his eyes. Of course Kerry's needs will win out over his own. They always do. Really, if Kerry hasn't picked up yet how he cares for her, even my friend can't be oblivious enough to miss it for long.

"I'll miss you, while you're gone," he says quietly, sitting down on the couch with us. One hand absently rubs Kerry's back, while he looks at me intently.

"Oh, it's just a month. You guys can live without me for a month," I say dismissively. "And when I come back, I'll be filthy rich. I'll have the biggest party this District has ever heard of! No more beach bonfires for us. I'll buy formal clothes for everybody we know and invite them to have dinner at my new house," I promise.

"I hate parties," Kerry mumbles into my shoulder, and Torres and I have to laugh.

"And we'll cure you of that, too," I say. Kerry does her best to smile, but she still looks incredibly fragile. "And we'll have the best time of anybody, and stay up talking until two in the morning," I continue, painting the picture of the perfect party. "Then we'll make _this _clown go home," I continue, punching Torres in the arm. "And we'll sleep in until noon. Then my mother will make us shrimp sandwiches. Just like always."

"Okay," she whispers.

A peacekeeper pokes his head in.

"It's time for them to go," he announces. Torres nods painfully and stands, helping Kerry to her feet. I can see her fighting back tears again as he helps her hobble out the door.

I twist my skirt in my hands, regretting that I have to wear it. I hate- well, I take that back. I don't hate skirts. They're pretty. They're just a little inconvenient.

Man. I can't believe this is happening. To me, anyway. I didn't mean what I told my family. I don't know if I have the stuff to murder. Even if I do, is that really a good thing?

It takes the right person to really survive the Hunger Games. And this is all wrong.


	8. Trickster

**A/N**- The following character was submitted by Telehphone.

* * *

_One, two, three, four. Well, that's not too bad. I wish Columbus could have been here. He's strongest… oh, well. This'll be fine, too._

"C'mon, Tris. We gonna wait around all day, or are we really going to do this?" Complains Sandler. It doesn't surprise me. Sandler complains about everything. Sandler _loves _complaining. He's never happy unless he has something to gripe about. Normally, that would be annoying, but he's still a nice guy and the strange things he finds to whine about are entertaining for the rest of us. I pat him on the back.

"Hang in there, my friend. I'm just working out how we're gonna do this. I was hoping we'd have a little more help…" I muse.

"We have two whole hours 'til we need to be at the reaping, Sandler," Moses points out. "We've got time."

"Yeah, but I'm tired out standing around," Sandler replies. "I mean, what are we supposed to do while Tris is planning? Just stand around like good little children stare at the sand crabs? I'm tired of sand crabs! I've been staring at sand crabs for eighteen years!"

He continues off on his tirade and I zone out again.

_Moses and Sandler would spend too much time arguing with each other. They wouldn't be much use. So I'd better put Sandler with Destin or Tasina. Tasina, probably. I don't know if she could lift furniture on her own. I'll be with Moses._

"Alright! Listen up, everybody!" I call, clapping my hands together for attention. Moses and Sandler's argument peters out and Destin and Tas shift their attention away from the gulls they've been harassing while waiting for me to make a decision. The birds give a couple of triumphant squawks as my friends put down the rocks they'd been pitching and collect next to me, leaving the gulls to munch on some fish guts.

"You know, it's really not nice to bait those birds and then throw rocks at them," I point out. Tas smirks.

"Some people'd argue it isn't nice to play pranks on people. Do you spend your days doing _anything _else, really?" She points out. I roll my eyes in defeat.

"Anyway, here's the plan. Sandler and Tasina, you'll be together. Moses, you're with me. Destin, you take whatever furniture you can handle on your own, alright?" Everyone nods, internalizing their assignments, and we set off.

"You got the costumes, Tas?" I ask. She nods.

"Of course I do. I'm not stupid," she replies haughtily.

"Oh, really? Guess I must have missed that," I say, pretending to be utterly mystified.

Tasina punches me in the arm. "I left them in the usual place," she sniffs.

I grin. Though Tas may sew and cook, she still acts just like one of us guys. To be honest, she's tougher than some of my other friends. Some of my other _male _friends. And me too, sometimes, but if anyone ever tells her I said that, they'll end up hanging by their ankles fifty feet up a tree in District 7.

The walk to "the usual place" is fairly fast. I would have preferred Tasina bring them along so we could skip this leg of the journey, but it's no more than a minor annoyance. Of course, we _should _hurry. We've got to be down at the Victor's Village early enough to get at least most of the furniture upstairs.

Maybe it's a little stupid- or a lot stupid –to prank the Capitol. After all, they don't take slights to their authority very lightly. In spite of this, I think Operation Furniture is a good idea. If there's anything my friends need today, it's a feeling of daring and invincibility. It's the perfect way to keep their minds off of the fact that the Capitol could pluck any of us away to kill us at any moment.

Man. The thought makes me sick.

But I can't let them see that. I'm the leader. I have to swallow what I feel if that's what's best for my friends. It's a responsibility that I'm more than willing to shoulder, but there are times when it's a little harder. Like now.

This, however, is not the time for whining. Now is the time for tricks. Now is the time for bravado and bluster. Now is the time to rally the troops. I'm good at that.

"Okay. We'll go for the big stuff first. We'll, those of us in pairs. Destin, you get the small pieces. If we don't get done in forty-five minutes, we'll just have to call it good and head to the reaping. So let's hurry up and get our stuff. We don't want to waste time," I pronounce and up our pace to a jog. I'm exaggerating a little. We could spend at least an hour in Victor's Village and still get there, but I'm hoping physical exertion will keep my crew focused.

We reach the spot where our makeshift disguises are hidden. They're pretty pathetic, sewn together from old pieces of stained sheets and tablecloths. They're none too pretty, either. Tas may sew, but she's never had the time or the will to learn to sew _well_.

I pass out the baggy, shapeless outfits, followed by rough masks that cover our heads, leaving only our eyes exposed. Ugly and less than durable, but they suit our purpose. We would have to burn them afterwards so they couldn't be traced back to us, anyway. This was why I didn't like big operations: too costly.

"Alright. I'm going to go to the other side of that building. None of you get any ideas about following me, we clear?" Tasina cautions.

"Why would we want to?" Destin drawls, and she sends him a dirty look. You have to walk a fine line with that one. She doesn't want you to go easy on her, but you're still expected to remember she's a girl. Really, I think she's just torn between a desire to be girlish and the stereotype it entails. She could handle it. Tas is just too sarcastic to be the stereotypical teenage girl.

"Let's get dressed, kiddos," I call, breaking up the forming argument. Tas snorts and flips her hair over her shoulder, marching off to change in privacy.

"Honestly. Not like we'd look," sighs Destin.

"Just let it go, man," I say. I unbutton my nice shirt and toss it behind a stack of crates. Not the best place for it, but what else can I do? We're just lucky we found a nice abandoned alley to change in. Of course, the town part of District 4 is usually pretty empty unless people are going to or from work. People would rather be at home or on the water, almost without exception. I'm sure there are people passing by on the other side of the street, of course, but we're safe in the back alleys during low-traffic times.

I pull the shirt over my head. It's pretty rough, but I only need it to hold up for an hour or two. Tas did a fine job for only having a week's worth of notice to make all five outfits. She probably worked herself to sleep every night.

Whatever else you can say about that girl, she's loyal to a fault.

"Tasina!" I call softly when we're all dressed. She pokes her head around whatever shack it is that we've been hiding behind. Her clothes are just as shapeless and loose fitting as ours are. It's clear she didn't make these with any particular one of us meant to wear them. Probably a good thing. The less defined we are, the less likely we are to get in trouble if something goes wrong. Not that I expect it to, of course. Why would they have security at Victor's Village? I highly doubt anybody besides me and my friends in this District would have the guts (and maybe stupidity, to be honest) to sneak into Victor's Village and mess with things. I'm sure it'll get bugged once they figure out what we've done, but we should have an easy time today.

"Let's wait to put the masks on until we're out of view of town," I say. "I mean, that would make us look even more suspicious than we already do."

Sandler scowls, pulling off the… mask-hat thing, complaining that he'll have to put it back on all over again. I shrug apologetically and he sniffs haughtily. Moses snorts, stuffing his own mask under his arm.

We get lots of funny looks as we head to Victor's Village, even though we try to avoid other people as much as we can. One man we pass in the alley even ducks into his house and locks the back door behind him, which I find a little offensive. I know we're well known group of troublemakers, but we're not going to break into anyone's _house_, for goodness' sake!

Unless you count breaking into an uninhabited, Capitol-owned mansion in Victors' Village. In which case, I guess we are.

Maybe I shouldn't be complaining about people being suspicious.

Soon we leave the alleys and houses behind. There's a short, scenic walk on the beach which is somewhat lengthened by Sandler and Moses getting into a brawl and Tas threatening to push them in the ocean if they don't shut up. Pretty basic stuff, but for some reason that makes me happy. I guess it's nice to know that even on reaping day, my friends are the same people living the same lives. No matter how scary it may be to be at the mercy of the Capitol, life goes on.

When my friends have finished wrestling, we get to the Village in less than five minutes. I push the gate open. It's not locked. Perfect.

"Alright, men," I begin, earning a quick whack from Tas. "Ow! And lady. Let's just head into the first one. It looks as good as any, right? So, get moving."

We split without further instruction. Tas drags Sandler in through the door, and they have the living room table half up the stairs by the time the rest of us get through the door. Sandler is, of course, complaining about how heavy it is, but Tasina shuts him up almost immediately. I smile. This is going to work out perfectly.

Moses and I take either end of a fancy armchair and begin to lug it up the stairs. It takes several minutes and a whole lot of swearing, but we finally crest the flight. The _first _flight. I groan out loud when I see another. Honestly. If these houses are really so fancy, you'd think they could put an elevator or something in them.

"M- man! How does wood and stuffing get so _heavy_?" Pants Moses.

"I'm guessing it's most- mostly the wood," I grunt.

"Rhetorical question, Tris," he sighs back. I shrug.

"You say something, you give me license to comment. That's how it works," I reply.

"This is why no one but us likes you, man," he grumbles, rolling his eyes.

"Not true!" I exclaim, offended. "Most people hate me because I hide stinking fish guts under their porches, or tell them the girl they're courting looks like something scraped off of a whale's underside, _not _because I answer rhetorical questions!"

Moses snorts in laughter and almost drops the chair on my foot.

"But not _everybody _else hates me, anyway. Lots of people think I'm funny. Wish they had the guts to be out with us, not doing what everybody wants and expects us to do," I go on.

"H- how do you know? You ask 'em?" Moses huffs.

"Well… no, but you can tell. I can- can see the people who smile a little when I'm called off to talk to the Disciplinarian during c- class, or who _don't _smile when they see me doing a punishment when I have to. You can tell."

He shrugs as well as he can while holding the armchair. Destin, who's been silent as he carries two dining chairs behind us, begins to say something. All of a sudden Tas begins pounding down the stairs, almost knocking straight into Moses.

After a brief bout of swearing from both of them, she's righted herself without any of us being crushed by flying furniture. "Head the other way!" I order. She frowns but retraces her steps, going back up the stairs to where Sandler waits, smugly, at the top.

"Told you we should have waited up here. Or at least watched ourselves better going down," he crows.

"Shut up!" Tasina replies. I roll my eyes.

"_Both of you _shut up! What were you going to say, Destin?" I ask.

He frowns. "Well, I don't remember _now_."

"Too bad. Whatever it was, was probably more intelligent than what _these _goons have to say," I sigh, jerking my head in Tasina and Sandler's general direction, earning myself a good couple of complaints, which I reward with a winning smile.

I put my side of the armchair down at the top of the stairs and Moses follows suit. I assume Tas and Sandler used their head start to find our gateway to the roof, so I turn to them and ask, "Which room has the balcony?"

"Third bedroom, on the left," Sandler sighs. "Can you believe this place has _five _bedrooms? My house only has _one_."

I smile and give him a sympathetic pat on the back. "Tell you what, Sandler. You win the Hunger Games, and you can have as many bedrooms as you want. Deal?"

Sandler punches me in the ribs, but it's not truly aggressive, and he's smiling a little. While some people would find my nonchalant, relaxed attitude toward things like the Games to be absolutely disgusting, my friends like it. Which might be why we're friends. _Clunk._

We freeze in unison. There's no way we all imagined a sound at the same time, so that means the clunking sound was real. There's someone down there.

I hold out a hand, motioning to the others to stay behind me. As fearless leader, it's my job to go first when we're walking blindly into what could be a throng of waiting Peacekeepers, or a robber much more dangerous than we are.

Sometimes being in charge isn't so much fun.

I creep down the stairs, thankful that their strong wood doesn't creak as I walk. I round the corner of the spiral staircase and stop.

It's definitely not a Peacekeeper. For one, whoever-it-is isn't wearing the telltale gray uniform. Second, she (because it _looks _like a girl, although I can't make out her face) doesn't have the soldierly build and air. Third, because she has what seems to be a painting tucked under her arm.

Dangerous? I don't think so. She looks young, to be honest, and I'm curious to know why she's here. I didn't think anyone else would have the guts to break into _this _goldmine. So I decide to ask.

"Wh-" I begin, putting a hand on her shoulder. Before I can get through a single word, she wheels around and punches me dead in the face.

I'm knocked back a bit in surprise. The girl is sprinting out the door almost before I can process what's happened, but my friends are already after her. Destin, who's fastest, catches her just inside the gate, pulling her back by the wrist. I can't see his face from this distance, but I'm sure that his eyes peeking through the mask are full of angry determination. When you mess with one of my gang, you mess with all of us. That includes punching me in the face.

"You alright?" Sandler asks anxiously. I nod in confirmation, although I indulge myself in a string of curse words I don't dare to repeat.

"Got me under the eye," I mutter. "But my nose is fine. I'll be alright. It just hurts."

"We can-" Sandler begins, but he's interrupted by some annoyed exclamation from Destin. I peer out the door to see the girl marching back towards us, her hood pulled firmly over her face.

I can see her beginning to open her mouth, probably to shout at _me_ for some reason, but I'm in no mood to hear it. "What was _that _for?" I cut her off.

"Thanks to you my face must have been exposed to the cameras for twenty seconds! They know who I am now! Do you have _any _idea what they might do to me?"

Oh, so _that's _what she's trying to pin on me.

"Look, it's not my fault that you let go of your hood," I say, trying to remain as civil as possible about this.

"It's not? I only dropped it when you scared me out of my wits!" she screeches.

I guess 'civil' is right out, then.

"Well, maybe you wouldn't be so twitchy if you weren't breaking into houses to steal stuff," I spit.

"You're a fine one to talk! Where'd you take the furniture, anyway?"

"Onto the roof."

This finally seems to throw her. Her face flickers from angry to blank and then to puzzled. "Um, what?"

"It's on the roof," I repeat sourly. It may not be _entirely _true, but it's close enough.

"Why not? You have to do _something _on reaping day," I tell her haughtily. "Why not a prank? Better than sitting at home and worrying about things."

She hesitates, looking like wants to reply, but spins around and marches out the door frostily, without another word. None of us move to stop her. In fact, we're glad to the back of her.

"Like to teach her a thing or two," Tas mutters, breaking the stewing silence. I laugh, glad the whole idiotic incident is over with. Which is when the hum of Peacekeeper stun guns picks up behind me.

_Oh, you've got to be kidding me._

"Scatter!" I bellow, and my friends obey without a word. We crash out one of the side doors, several Peacekeepers at our feet. They holler at us to stop, but it never really crosses our minds, to be honest. It definitely sounds like more than one set of footsteps, but I don't break my focus by looking back.

Destin and Moses get a good lead almost immediately, with Tas trailing a bit behind. I'm towards the back of the pack, but ahead of Sandler, as evidence by his yelp of panic.

I whip around to see a Peacekeeper's caught him by the arm. I barrel into the woman holding onto my friend, knocking her off her feet.

"Go!" I shout, and Sandler darts off again, terror clear in his eyes. I stumble to my feet, trying to make a break for it into the side streets, hoping to lead the Peacekeepers away from my friends and maybe loose them inside one of the houses. I don't get very far before I'm tackled and pinned.

I struggle vainly against the weight of a Peacekeeper holding me to the ground. Three pairs of feet plant themselves in my vision, hitting the ground like the blade of a guillotine.

_What have I gotten myself into? How did they know to wait here today? _I don't have any answers to my questions. All I now is I've been caught.

The Peacekeeper who tackled me grabs my shoulders and lifts me to my feet, keeping a firm grasp on my arms. I don't look up, trying to put off the inevitable moment of exposure. One of the other Peacekeepers, the woman who caught Sandler, grabs me by the chin and yanks my head up. She pulls the mask off.

There is no moment of surprise. Of course there isn't. Why should she be surprised? I'm the biggest troublemaker in District 4, someone the Peacekeepers have been trying to get their hands on for a long time. It's only due to the fact that I make very sure not to leave evidence behind that I haven't been arrested yet; even that wouldn't have been enough if my father wasn't friends with the mayor. A less-connected boy would have been brought in and punished even without real proof. But now they have that proof. They don't need anything else.

"Kelley. I should have guessed," she chuckles humorously. "Mr. Kaplan, sir?"

The Peacekeeper turns back to another man, apparently the leader. He walks toward me, slow and grave, observing me intently.

"You do know you've broken _several _laws through your escapades today, Mr. Kelley?" Kaplan says in a low voice. I don't respond.

_He didn't get your friends. They got away. Just think about your friends. Think about your friends._

"The Capitol does not take slights to its authority lightly," he continues.

"Really? That's news to me," I grumble. For once my impudent attitude gets me in trouble. Kaplan flips his stun gun out of his belt and smashes the butt of the weapon into the side of my face. My head snaps to the side and pain rushes to left side of my face. If I don't have a bruise from when that girl punched me, I do now.

"You'd do well to cooperate, Mr. Kelley," Kaplan snarls. "Who else was here with you today? Holden? Rednought? Eizen?"

I say nothing. Eizen would be Moses, but I'm not about to sell out any of my friends, especially those loyal enough to help me out today.

"You hear me?" he barks. Kaplan grabs a hold of me, waving away my previous captor. He gives me a good shake before pulling me toward him so we're nose to nose. "You'd do well not to anger the Capitol, boy."

"I thought it was a little too late for that, _sir_," I snarl.

He gives me a hard stare for long, silent moments before shoving me to the ground.

"Get out of here," he orders. I'm so surprised I forget t curse about the abrupt introduction of my shoulder to the cobblestones.

"W- what?" I say, mystified.

"I said, 'get out'. Leave. Scram. Go," he says testily. My brain finally fires all the right synapses and I'm off like a shot, taking only one shocked backwards glance that reveals Kaplan talking into some sort of transmitter.

_He let me go. He let me go_, I think in wonder.

It's not until the reaping I realize why.

"Tris Kelley!"

_The following section has been removed from public record due to slanderous claims against our glorious Capitol. Clearance level ten or higher required to access this selection. If you wish to continue to the omitted content, click __**here **__and enter your government pass code. Thank you for your cooperation._

I walk slowly toward the stage. I can feel all eyes on me. Unlike the moment Daphine (who I've put together must be the girl who punched me earlier) was reaped, there is no deathly silence. Instead I hear people whispering, a mix of those distressed that I've been chosen, and a horribly widespread sentiment that really boils down to, "serves him right."

I fight to keep a straight face. There's anger at the Capitol for doing this to me. There's anger at myself for my general stupidity. There's utter terror at the fact that I've been reaped. There's disgust and even _more _anger at the people who are looking at me smugly, saying that I deserve this. There's a mess of other emotions that I could spend hours describing in minute detail, but anger is the most prevalent.

I climb the short staircase to the stage; swallowing everything, save for a good glare at Daphine to let her know she's not forgiven for the slug to my face. Her eyes widen, and I guess realizations sets in. I don't hear the rest of speech, because one thought is pounding behind my head. I've lost. For the first in my life, I've taken a gamble and thrown caution to the wind and gotten burned for it.

And you know what?

This sucks.


	9. A Mother's Love

**A/N**- The following character was submitted by Vampirah. This was another pre-written one.

* * *

I hum gently to Brey as his little arms flop happily. At three, he's still so tiny that I can't think of him as anything but my baby. Even though he started to talk a long time ago. Even though he likes nothing better than to run around his grandma's kitchen and pull the pans off her shelves.

I wrap an arm around his waist and pull him closer to me, giving him a kiss on the cheek. He squeals with delight and squirms, kicking the sheets and blanket off the bed. I giggle as he wiggles up against me, his fluffy hair, black like mine, tickling my chin and neck.

"Mommy pretty!" he crows, and I chuckle. I don't know what this has to do with us tickling each other, or how pretty I really am so early in the morning, but I'm beautiful to my son and it sends warmth through my stomach. I wiggle my fingers lightly against his stomach, tickling him and sending him into hysterics again. I give him one more kiss on the forehead before I climb out of bed and stretch. I pick Brey up and set him down on the floor gently. He cackles with a little boy's joy and zest for life before he charges off into the kitchen.

I smile before moving to the bedside table where I set my clothes out the night before. I run my hands over the soft white fabric of the blouse as I lay my nightgown down on the table. I pull it on over my arms and do up the buttons. I pull on my dress pants and tuck the front of the blouse in. I smile. My clothes may not be fancy, but they're clean and I'm the first owner, which is a lot more than a lot of people I know can say. I pull on my shoes with their low heel and smile at my reflection. I braid back my black hair and rub a washcloth over my face, my one blue and one brown eye blinking back at me from the mirror.

I pull a set off clothes for Brey from the table and drift into the kitchen, where he's telling my mother everything about the bird he saw yesterday. I pounce on him from behind, wrapping an arm around his waist and spinning him around. We laugh, but only Brey is really in the moment. Mom and I can't help thinking about the reaping this morning. My third and last. I wish I could just be like Brey, without a care in the world, but I learned quite long ago that the world's not full of happiness and perfect lives. I know. I was nine months pregnant with Brey on my first reaping. I know only too well.

But I'm not going to begrudge my son his innocent joy. I plop him down on his feet and pull off his pajama top.

"Hands are _cold, _Mama!" he squeaks and wiggles away. I laugh and toss the shirt over to my mother, who helps him out of his pajamas and starts dressing him for the reaping.

I sit down at the kitchen table, smiling faintly. Here I can let the shell around my heart slip a little, but as soon as I walk through my door it will harden again. So I enjoy my openness while I can. As my mother pulls on Brey's pants my father comes downstairs. Even though he's my father, I feel my stomach gives that momentary clench that it does around all men. But it passes. It always does. My father would never hurt me. That's unimaginable. He loves me an incredible amount.

Papa rubs his bed head, only succeeding in fluffing up his already mussed hair. My mother chuckles and he grimaces. He's not as happy in the mornings as Brey, or even me. He gives us each a kiss, prompting Brey to exclaim, "I love grampa!"

I smile at him. However he came to be, he's my son. All the suffering the world could never make me regret him. My smile fades. Everything might seem okay if the story stopped there, but his father… Whichever one was his father, was never punished. None of them were. No. The only one who suffered from what they did to me was me, so afraid of men, even my father. I used to be so open, so happy. But now I duck my head. I hate to go out in public. I'm quiet. And it's all their fault. They got drunk, threatened to kill me if I struggled, and- and they…

The fork I was playing with as I thought clatters a jittery rhythm against the plate on the table as my hands shake. The memory never loses its force or its vividness. I remember every word they said, every sneer on their ugly, drunken faces. One of them was a Peacekeeper. He sometimes comes to work at the school. It was enough to finally make me drop out and spend my time working to help support my son.

My mother looks up at the clattering of metal against plate and frowns, "Tate, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, Mama. I'm sorry. I'm just- I'm fine," I assure her, forcing myself to smile. I try not to worry them. There's nothing they can possibly do that they haven't done already. They let me work at embroidery at home so I never need to go and face working around men I don't know. They found a woman to teach me the self-defense classes as soon as Brey was born, so that I can defend myself if something ever happens again. But as much as I know they wish they could, they can't change the past. They can't protect me from the violation, from the shame that I felt whenever someone would look at my swollen stomach. It wasn't my fault. I wasn't some stupid girl who thought her boyfriend was in love with her before he got what he wanted and left her. But they didn't know, and I was too afraid of those men to tell them. My parents, sister, and Val were the only ones I thought I could trust. Anyone else…well, those men held a knife to me when they cornered me on the way home. If I get them in trouble, I don't think they'll show more restraint this time around.

My hand moves on its own to the scar hidden under the collar of my blouse. It wouldn't do any good to report them, anyway. That Peacekeeper would protect his disgusting friends. And there's no justice to be found in the "Justice Building." A Peacekeeper will go free for crimes against a District citizen, no matter how huge the amount of evidence of their guilt is, no matter how severe their offense is. And it would be a simple matter for him to talk whatever colleague of his was working to let the others off the hook. I feel the familiar disgust rise into my throat. It's not fair. It's so wrong. But I have to live under this corrupted rule.

My mother sees my hand. She knows immediately what I'm thinking. "Oh, Tate," she whispers. My mama puts her arm around me and pulls my head to rest on her shoulder. I feel myself start to cry. Most of the time I can live with the memory. I have to. But not today, when so many people, including me, are in danger. It's just too much all mixed together. It just reminds me that I may not be pregnant now, but the cruelty is never going to stop. I'm always going to crushed under the Capitol's cruelty. My son is going to be a slave for all intents and purposes as well. And I can't change the world for either of us.

My mother rocks me for a couple of minutes as Papa tries to distract Brey from seeing me cry. I don't want to have to explain to him that I don't even know who his father was, that he was never meant to be born. I want desperately to protect him from that reality. In him I see all the innocence I'll never reclaim, and I want to protect that and him.

The memory washes over me.

_I walk along the sidewalk. I'm not stupid. I stay out in the glow of the streetlight. I walk quickly and with purpose. Mama's got to be beside herself with worry by now. I grumble slightly to myself as I stride towards home. I can't lose track of the time again._

_As I skirt around a puddle, I feel something latch on to my arm. With a yelp I'm yanked into the mouth of an alley, away from the light that would shield me and show anyone who looked out his or her window what was going on. The thing on my arm is a hand. A large hand. A man's hand._

"_Where you going, so late an' all alone, huh?" he slurs, and I can smell the liquor on his breath._

"_Home," I stutter in terror. I add in desperation, "I just got off work at the shop. My older brother is supposed to meet me on the street corner right now."_

_But my lie doesn't impress him. He chuckles drunkenly and says, "Well, I'm afraid you're going to be a little late."_

_The others bray with unintelligent laughter as the first man wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me up against him. I yelp and he plants stinking kisses on my neck, collarbone, and mouth._

"_Let go of me! Let go!" I shout desperately, pushing against his barrel of a chest._

_He pulls out a knife and digs it into my collarbone. He growls, "You better shut up or I'll kill you," and pushes me back against the wall. I give one last sob of terror and give in._

_An hour later I lie on the ground, bleeding and crying as they stumble off into the night. My vision swims with tears and pain as I force myself to my feet, quaking and moaning. I pull my destroyed shirt over my bruised body as I stumble up to the two-story shop next to the alley and bang on the door as hard as I can manage. After a moment a light goes on up on the second floor and I hear angry steps thumping down the stairs to the shop level. A gray-haired old woman yanks open the door and exclaims, "What on earth is- oh!"_

_I collapse on the threshold of her door and pass out. And I never truly trust again._

* * *

"Mama? Mama?" calls Brey from where my father is trying to urge him into the hall. I smile as best I can through my tears.

"It's okay, Brey. Mommy's fine. Mommy's just fine," I manage. He blinks at me with little boy seriousness, and I can't tell whether he understands that I'm suffering or not. But Papa calls out to ask who wants pancakes, and the light flips on behind his eyes. He jumps with excitement and I can't help but smile. Pancakes. What a luxury.

I stand up from my mother's lap and give her a quick hug.

"I'm sorry, Tatum. I'm so sorry," she whispers. I nod and wipe my eyes on my sleeve. I know, Mama. But it won't fix anything.

"Alright. Let's go get Maylise before the reaping," my mother calls.

"Isn't she going in with the Barmanlows? She spent the night there," Papa says.

I shiver a little. Those men have even managed to ruin such usually innocent and happy things as a night over at a friend's house. It was Valamine's house that I spent too long at before I tried to walk home that night. In our fifteen-year-old assurance in our own safety, I left instead of spending the night like I should have. I knew my parents would be worried. I didn't know that by trying to get home I'd make their fears come true.

Now every time May goes over to someone's house I can't help but be afraid she'll be hurt somehow, too. But we couldn't begrudge her a friend's company last night. We hoped that being with her friend might help her relax and take her mind off the impending reaping.

"Yes, but I want us to have _some_ time together as a family before the reaping. Just… just in case," Mama answers.

I gather Brey up and he babbles, "Mommy, are we going to get Auntie May?"

I smile at him and nod, "Mhm. Auntie Maylise is going to walk into the Square with us for the big ceremony today."

He nods seriously and wraps his soft arm around my neck. I smile and wait for my father to head out the door before taking an unwilling step out myself. Mama locks the house up and walks next to me. She puts her hand on my elbow to remind me that she's here. I smile pensively, dreading having to stand in the square surrounded by all those men. Even four of the men who abused me that night will be there. The fifth died from alcohol poisoning a year ago.

We make strained conversation as the reality of the reaping begins to set in more firmly; but Brey, who can't seem to get over the wonder of the dragonfly that passed us a few minutes ago, provides most of the entertainment. He walks beside me part of the time and I carry him the rest. All in all, it's about a fifteen-minute walk to the Barmanlows' house. Maylise and her friend, Corella Barmanlow, are already waiting for us; so we only have to wait for a couple of minutes before Corella's parents are reading to go. Our families walk together and now May and Cora's bubbly chatter has bolstered our sparse conversation.

I begin to feel my stomach tightening as we pass groups of people headed to the reaping. I wonder how many of the men look at me and would hurt me without a second thought. I wonder if any of them have already hurts others. I know it's making things worse to worry this way, but I can't stop my mind's wandering. The closer we walk, the more people there, and the worse it gets. I feel a hand on my elbow and I jump.

"Whoa! It's okay, Tate. It's just me," soothes Maylise. I smile and try to make my heart slow its pounding, but without much success. May frowns apologetically and asks, "Are you going to want me and Cora to walk you into your section?"

"Cora and me," I correct and she rolls her eyes. "But yes, please. If it's not a problem."

"Oh, Cora doesn't mind, do you, Corella?" she asks.

"Nope!" Cora chirps and I smile gratefully. I never told her how I came to have Brey, but she's a smart girl and I think she's worked it out on her own. At least she's always pretty accepting of my neediness.

May grasps my hand and calls Brey. He skips up to us and I scoop him up with my other arm. Cora falls into step beside me and they guard me as we enter the square. I say a quick goodbye to my parents and turn to where the kids are separated by age. I head to the eighteens' section but before I can enter a Peacekeeper holds out his arm and I back away in fear.

"I- I need to get in," I stammer.

"He's not of reaping age, miss. He can't come in," he says, gesturing at Brey. I sigh in frustration before turning back and wading through the terrible mass of people back to my parents, Corella and May at my heels.

"You're going to stay with Gramma and Grampa until I'm done, okay, Brey?" I say, as cheerfully as I can manage while my stomach is tied in knots and my heart is trying to smash through my chest like it is now.

"Okay, Mommy!" he says, bouncing up and down where he sits on my hip. I carefully put him down (though he's not making it any easier wiggling like that) and he runs to my mother and buries his face in her dress. I blow a kiss to each of them and turn around to run the gauntlet once more. I can't wait for next year, when I'll be able to simply stand at the edge of the crowd instead of being packed into the roped-off area.

I cringe up against Maylise as a boy on his way to the sixteen-year-old section brushes against me, but other than that I reach my section without incident. I scan the section for Valamine until I spot her in the far corner. I gulp, but focus on the fact that she's surrounded only by other girls. As soon as I reach her I'll be safe. May and Corella get me to Val, who smiles gratefully at them and pulls me up next to her.

"Doing okay, Tate?" she asks.

"Not much better than last year," I mutter.

She grimaces sympathetically and waves goodbye to Maylise and Cora as they head over to stand with the other fourteen-year-olds. She smiles gently at me and tries to start a conversation, but I'm just too nervous.

As the speeches and more nicey-nice proceedings begin, we fall silent. I listen to every word, hoping to stretch out the time until the card of this year's innocent victim will be chosen. Even if it's not me, my heart will ache for whoever is up there, especially if they're one of the younger girls. Twelves, thirteens, I just can't stand to see them die. As a mother, I can understand how devastating is must be for their parents, as well as the child themselves. But all too soon the escort moves to the ball, his pudgy hand swirling inside of it with more drama than necessary to choose a slip of paper.

"And our male tribute for this year is…Kaden Witcraft!"

I shift uncomfortably where I stand. I hate watching reapings. But when it's the boy being called, I find I don't care as much. I feel like such a terrible person, but it's not something I can help. But soon the small guilty flutter in my stomach is replaced with another sensation, fear, as the escort turns to the girl's ball.

"And now for our girls!" he sticks his hand in again, with just as much relish. "Tatum Reeds!"

No. No. No, this can't be happening. Brey needs me. And I can't die. I have to be here for him. He can't grow up with no mother and no father. I shake my head in stunned horror as Val shrieks in desperation that I'm a mother, that they can't do this to me. But the Peacekeepers are pushing through the other girls already to come and force me onto the stage. As one of them tried to grab my shoulder I yelp and pull myself away from him and flee toward the stage, my stomach thrashing with horror at the idea of all those men touching me.

The escort has a slightly puzzled look on his face, but replaces it with a smile and grabs at my hand. I stumble backwards and almost run into Kaden.

He tries to grab a hold of my elbow to steady me, and I jump back, almost losing my balance. The mayor, a woman, thankfully, grabs a hold of my upper arms and steadies me. She smiles gently before snapping at the escort, "Just finish it up, already."

He huffs at her rude tone and announces, "The tributes of District 5!"

There's some half-hearted applause and murmuring, but all I can hear are Brey's cries of "Hi Mommy!" as he waves at me from where my mother holds him. He waves and smiles and a lump rises in my throat. He doesn't understand.

I'm surprised when they mayor takes my arm and leads me off stage, ordering the Peacekeepers not to touch me and to keep their distance. I don't understand as she walks me to the Justice Building until we reach the far end of the hall and she turns me so that I'm looking into her eyes.

"Your father came to me and told me what happened after those men... He wanted me to do something about it. But if I tried to put them on trial for what they did to you, it would only have hurt you in the long run. He was so angry, but it was what was best for you. But I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I can't protect you or anyone else. It's supposed to be my job, but I'm just- I'm just a puppet. We all are. If there was anything I could have done, I would have done it. Can you forgive me?" she says quietly, under her breath.

I nod in surprise. A small, sad, smile creeps onto her face. She takes my hand and shakes it firmly before pushing open the door and motioning me in to a very plain room with just a couch and carpet to add anything to its boxy shape and creamy paint.

"Your family and any other visitors will be here any-" she begins, before the door is knocked back against the wall and Maylise barrels in. My mother and father follow after a moment, but she's already got her arm wrapped around my neck, sobbing and rocking back and forth.

"I'm so- I'm- I'm so sorry, Tate! I went over to Cora's and I should have been at home and now I'm never going to see you again and I should have been with you last night and- and-" she sobs. I don't make any attempt to stop her as the sentence goes on and on in a confused way. I just wrap my arms around her and rock her like I rock Brey. My mother and father stand at the door, tears running down their faces. The mayor has slipped off silently to give us our privacy and I frown. I didn't get to say thank you. Brey is struggling to get away from my mother, and he's crying, too. He doesn't really know what's happening, but he can see that everyone's sad.

May shudders and sniffs loudly. I take her by the shoulders and make her sit up and look me in the eyes, "I love you."

She tries to smile at me but can't quite force her mouth to make the shape, "I love you, Tate."

I stand up and give my father a hug, "I love you, Papa."

"I love you. Please, please come back."

Mama gives Brey to Maylise and holds her arms out to me. "I love you. Take care of Brey for me while I'm gone. Don't let him watch the TV."

She nods, "I know, sweetheart. I love you."

I turn back to the couch and lift Brey from May's arms, "Sweetie, Mommy's going to go on a trip, okay?"

He scrunches up his snotty, tearstained face and wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Where ya goin', Mama?"

I hear my mother make a choked sound and I'm sure she's crying again. How do you explain something like the Hunger Games to a three-year-old boy?

"Mama is going to play a game in a fancy place. It's very pretty there and she might like it so much that she'll stay," I say, trying to holding back the tears that are trying to leak out around the corners of my eyes. "You have to be a good boy for Gramma while I'm gone, okay?"

"But I don't wan' you to leave!" he sniffs, burying his face against my neck.

I wrap my arms around him as tightly as I can without hurting him at all and drink him in. I memorize the feel of his soft skin, his smell, the sound of his voice. I need to memorize him now, in case I never have another chance.

"I know, honey. I don't want to go. But I have to," I choke.

The door opens and a Peacekeeper marches in. It's a woman this time, I note with grim amusement. They must be learning.

"Your visiting time is over. Please exit the Justice Building," she orders my family. May gives me a kiss on the cheek and runs out the door. I give my wailing mother one more hug and kiss Brey on the forehead. I slowly hand him to my father, wanting to hold onto him for as long as possible. I embrace both of them and my father walks painfully away.

"Mama!" Brey calls, holding out a little arm to me. "Mommy!"

And before I can shout once more that I love him, the Peacekeeper slams the door shut. I stop being strong and just crumple on the couch and sob.

"Tate?" I don't hear Valamine enter, just her trembling voice from the doorway. I hold out my arms blindly and she runs over to me and hugs me for all she's worth. I cry and cry, like Maylise did only minutes ago. But after a minute I feel Val pull away, and I look at her with confusion.

"Please, Tate. I'm going to have to watch you suffer for so long once you leave. Let's try to be happy one more time. Please," she begs. I force myself to smile.

"I love your dress," I whisper.

We spend our last fifteen minutes talking about mundane things like our hair or something funny Brey did the other day. Maybe we should be spending what may be our final hour together talking about something more significant, but I don't think so. Even if I win, things will never be normal again. This is the last moment I have to just be Tatum Reeds. And I don't think it's a waste at all.

Soon Val is called away. A pained look crosses her face.

"Bye, Tatum," she whispers.

"Bye, Valamine," I respond.

And the moment is shattered. The weight of what I'm facing smashes back onto my shoulders. Val's face is grim and hopeless.

She turns away and walks slowly out the door. Her feet drag like they're too heavy to lift.

I sit slowly down and stare lifelessly at the floor. What am I going to do?

Fight. I'm going to fight for this. Determination begins to grow in my stomach. I can't just give up and let this happen. I can't let my family and Val go without even trying. I won't. I square my shoulders and lift my eyes to the door. I wait in silence for the rest of my visiting time to run out. Soon it does and the female Peacekeeper reenters. Even before she opens her mouth to tell me it's time to head to the train I have breezed past her.

I need to get back to Valamine. She's been the most incredible friend, and I owe her my happiness for all these years. I can't hurt her by dying after everything she's done for me.

I need to get back to Maylise. If I'm lost now, she'll hate herself forever for missing our last night together. I won't let her life be destroyed the way those men risked destroying mine.

I need to get back to my parents. They've done everything they could to protect me, but it hasn't been enough. To lose me now, again to a cruelty that was beyond their control, would wound them beyond healing. And they're wonderful people. They don't deserve that.

I need to get back to Brey. He's my son. No one else will ever be able to love him the way I do. And I won't rob him of that love. I will see him grow up and marry and have his own children. I will fight for him and love him all the harder for the pain I have seen.

Never underestimate a mother's love.


	10. Bright Side

**A/N**- The following character was submitted by Writting2StayHalfSane.

* * *

"Kaden Witcraft!"

I guess I'm a little different. Right now most people would be screaming or crying or hating the Capitol for this. Maybe I should be, too. Somehow, all I can think is, _I bet the Capitol looks even more beautiful in person_.

I move toward the stage. People part in front of as I walk like I have some horrible disease they'll catch if they so much as brush me. Which seems stupid to me. It's not like being reaped is contagious. Still, it's not like they're exactly mocking me. I can see the disgust in people's eyes. Disgust not for me, but for the fact that I'm being taken. Really, a lot of them look more upset than I am.

Maybe I should be upset. Maybe that's the most "logical" or "realistic" thing to do, but why would I want to do that? Panem is, quite frankly, a hard place to live. I don't know what life was like in the days before our country became a dictatorship, but I can't imagine they were worse than they are now. If you let everything that goes wrong in Panem hurt you, you'll never pull your battered self off the ground. So I do everything I can to keep smiling.

_Think of the positives, Kaden, _I order myself. _Well… you're going to be on TV. You'll be famous. Everyone in Panem will be cheering your name._

My legs wobble a little as I climb the staircase. I shove away any nerves, sternly reminding myself that the path of worry won't fix anything, and will only make me miserable in the end.

_Wow, look at the escort! Her hair looks so weird. I wonder what he did to make his hair look so… crunchy. And he's chubby. He must get more than enough to eat. Good for him, _I muse to myself.

The escort shakes my hand with the same relish he has for everything. He seems pretty happy. Maybe he'll be nice. What was his name? Something long and fancy, but I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been.

"And now for our girl!" he exclaims, chipper. He burrows around in the bowl, searching for the perfect contestant to leap into his hand, and pulls out a slip. "Tatum Reeds!"

The immediate response is a scream coming from two or three sections older than mine. At first I can't make out what the girl is shouting, but soon the rush of words becomes recognizable. "No! You can't do this to her! She's a mother! No!" The phrases tumble over each other, floundering to make themselves heard.

_A mother? _I falter, eyes searching through the crowd. That's enough to shake even my eternal good mood. _W- well, there has to be a bright side. There's always a bright side. If she wins, she can give her child a better life. If she wins. Which mean, if _you _die._

But it won't help to dwell on that. I force myself to think about something else. The opportunity is provided by the sudden emergence of my District partner from her section. She looks scared, more than anything.

_The girl… she doesn't look mean or dangerous. Maybe she'll want to be your ally and you can protect each other._

That would be good. Although I'm actually a quiet person most of the time, I wouldn't want to be alone in the Hunger Games. If I'm never going to come home, I want to at least have a friend to help me be strong. I don't think it'll be too hard to find a friend in the Hunger Games; we'll be the few people on earth who understand the experience we will be forced to share.

Tatum's toe catches on the edge of the stage and she stumbles. She manages not to fall, but can't quite regain her balance. She careens onto the stage and teeter dangerously, only throwing herself more off balance when she flinches away from escort what's-his-face's hand. I guess she doesn't like him as much as I do.

She's about to fall again, so I reach for her arm. To my confusion, she twists away from me, too. She looks… wild, with her hair flying into her eyes, and her legs quivering so hard that even I can see it. It's almost scary. I've seen kids scared to death by being reaped before, but never this badly. Most of them are in control of themselves by the time we reach the stage. Tatum Reeds is not.

The mayor finally stops Tatum's terrified flailing across the stage. The cries from the audience have finally gone silent, so the microphones pick up her snarl of, "Just finish it up, already," easily.

The escort chuffs, a little put off, but recovers his dignity to grandly pronounce, "The tributes of District 5!"

People clap, but it isn't the good kind of clapping. It's obligatory, tired clapping, which kind of annoys me. Tatum and I might never come back. Our District could at least give us a decent sendoff.

A Peacekeeper moves to lead me off, and another one starts toward Tatum. The mayor intercepts him, ordering them all to stay at a distance. I'm surprised to see she leads Tatum off herself, and judging by the look of confusion on my District partner's face it doesn't make too much more sense to her.

I've never been inside the Justice building before, so seeing it now is kind of an unexpected treat. I figured I wouldn't go inside of it until I needed to register for a job or some such thing. It's not too nice a place, but still a lot better taken care of than most of the District. The paint isn't peeling, and the floor is all covered by clean, albeit worn, carpet. I decide I like the Justice Building, although all telling I'd rather say my goodbyes at home.

"Your friends and family will be sent in momentarily," a Peacekeeper drones, motioning me towards a couch.

"Thank you!" I chirp, smiling. He probably doesn't get enough smiles; most people don't like Peacekeepers. He gives me sort of a funny look before closing the door with a click. I make myself comfortable on the sofa. It's a nice couch, as couches go. I bounce up and down, feeling the softness of the stuffing underneath me.

A few seconds later the doorknob rattles. It seems that someone is fumbling around with it, trying to get it open. I'm about to help whoever it is, but they get it open of their own accord. My mother and father squeeze themselves through, my sister Trill trailing behind them. They stand in silence for a moment, apparently unsure what to do.

"I'm going to miss you all," I prompt. That shakes a few gears loose and my mother moves toward the couch, sitting down slowly and tentatively, like she'll break if she moves too quickly. It hurts to see.

"Oh, Kaden," she murmurs. She pulls me on to her lap. Normally I'd find that embarrassing, but now I don't mind. She rocks me back and forth a little, humming an old lullaby I used to beg her to sing me every night. Strange to say, I still can't remember the words. I guess the words were never important. Or maybe I just fell asleep too fast.

"K- Kaden?" I feel Trill's little hand pulling on my sweater. She's small for her age, just like I am, so she looks even younger than seven as she stands by the couch. She looks bewildered and delicate, and I hate it.

"What is, it, huh?" I ask soothingly, twisting to pull her up onto my lap, which is no easy feat since I'm still perched on my mother's. Really, it's a good thing we're both so small or she wouldn't be able to take it.

"I don't want you to go. Can't you tell 'em no?" she begs, wrapping her skinny arms around my neck. I smile sadly.

"No. I'm sorry, Trill. It… it doesn't work that way."

"But… I need you! Who'll help me if I get sick during class?" she pleads, her eyes wide and not quite understanding. I wince a little. She means if she has a seizure in class. It's true, the other kids usually find it too scary and no one will put something soft under her head or talk gently to her when she wakes up crying. I get called out of class about once a month to help Trill. Without me, she'll be miserable.

"I don't know, Trilly. You'll just have to be brave and answer the nurse's questions yourself if it happens while I'm gone, okay?"

Trill nods miserably, and it breaks my heart. I give her a kiss on the top of the head and rub her back for a moment. I gently push my sister off my lap and go to give my father a hug. He's been so quiet. I bet he needs help finding the words.

Almost before I touch him, he starts babbling. "You'll win, won't you? You won't give up? No, of course not. You never give up; you always keep believing there's an upside. But there _isn't_! How could they _do _this to you? To _all _of you! The other children… you need to kill them, Kaden. I know how it sounds, but-"

"I know," I say gently. "I know all that. I love you, Papa."

"Love you, too," he coughs, trying to hide the breaking of his voice. Which seems a little pointless to me. No one in this room would judge him for crying.

I give him a long hug. "Bye."

I turn to my mother where she sits still on the couch, holding Trill's hand.

"Bye." I give her a hug, too.

"Bye, Trilly. You'll be good while I'm gone, right?"

She nods tearfully and I give her a second hug for good measure. "That's my girl. I love you."

"Uh-huh," she mutters, looking at the floor. Mother stands and leads her slowly out the door. Trill's little hand opens and closes morosely in a seven-year-old's beaten wave, and I do my best to smile back.

My death sentence hasn't _really _been signed yet, but this is still hard.

My father gives me another hug and briefly fluffs my hair before he straightens his back and does his best to walk past the guard outside with his dignity intact. My father always has cared too much about what other people thought of him.

There's a moment of two of relative silence, and then what sounds like hushed squabbling. Eventually the door is yanked open just wide enough for my friend Criss to squeeze in.

"Sorry about that," he huffs solemnly. "Pile up at the door."

"That's okay. At least that means I've got lots of visitors, right?" I say with a smile. Criss laughs a little, but it's bitter.

"You, for a minute I thought this might put a damper on even _your _good mood," he says.

"You always were a little slow," I tease. He snorts and punches me. "Hey! No beating me up. I'm pretty sure that's against the law now," I complain.

"Yeah. Backwards, huh? I can't hurt you, because the Capitol is too determined to do it themselves," he says with a sigh.

"Nobody's going to hurt me, Criss," I insist.

"No? These things haven't ended in any less than… what? Two weeks? Even if you don't lose, you'll be hungry and tired and afraid and… Well, you definitely won't come out 'not hurt'," he says.

It's strange to see Criss so negative about my chances. He's usually the second-most optimistic person I know. Following myself, of course. I decide I don't like this gloomy Criss, and resolve to fix him.

"Snap out of it," I order sternly. Criss blinks.

"Out of what?" he says, confused.

"This whole, 'you're going to lose and die, Kaden' thing you have going on," I say, giving a very vague wave of the hand to illustrate. "You've given up on me, and I don't like it!"

Criss looks offended. "No, I haven't, Kaden! You're my best friend. I'm not just going to-"

"Oh yeah? I've _never _seen you like this before, Criss. I've never had you stand there and chant all the things that could and 'will' go wrong. Even when the odds were totally against whatever it was, you never just _gave in_. So why would you do it now?"

He glares at me for a moment, but says nothing, so I assume I've won the upper hand in this argument.

"Criss, I can't have you doubt me right now. Any of you. I need you, my parents, all the kids at school to be cheering for me. At least then, whatever happens, I'm not going to be alone in this. Can you do that for me? Can you keep believing, even if you're wrong and it's hurts more because of it?" I say.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," he sighs. A small smile creeping onto his face. "Shouldn't be hard to get the others on board, once you're on national television."

"'Course not! I'll be a star! And when I come home, I'll be the richest man in District 5!"

"Not a man; you're just fifteen," Criss points out. I wave him away. "A technicality. Besides, you're just fourteen. Anyway, I'll be the richest man in District 5 and… I'll pay for the repairs to your house!" I exclaim.

"I'll live off of you for years," he agrees.

"Alright. Sounds like a plan," I laugh. "You get everyone here to cheer for me during the Games, and you get a life of luxury. Sound fair?"

Criss considers jokingly, stroking his chin and arching one eyebrow. "I guess that will do, Mr. Wircraft."

We shake on our agreement, laughing and bowing with exaggeration. Soon we quiet and watch each other in silence for a moment.

"I better go," he says quietly. I smile and we give each other one long hug. Criss thumps my back once and disappears.

Almost immediately, my next visitor is let in. It's my aunt Clara. She and my father have always been especially close, even for siblings, so she was a constant fixture at our house when she wasn't working. She almost fifteen years younger than my father, so she's actually still fairly young, and acted more like an older sister than an aunt to me.

"I'm so sorry, Kaden," she whispers, pulling her hat off and twisting it between her hands. My aunt shares the red hair that runs in my father's side of the family. Sometimes on family outing, people have mistaken her for my mother, much to my _real _mother's chagrin.

"You don't deserve this," she murmurs. "Less than any of them. I mean… did you watch the reaping? Some of them looked just shallow and frightening and-" She breaks off, voice shaking a little. "I can't imagine you in there. _You_. You always have a smile, for everyone, even if they don't deserve it. You're always happy. You love everyone. How can they try to put you in a place like that? It's wrong. It's just… _wrong_."

She breaks off and shakes her head insistently. It seems like words have deserted her, and all that's left to do is deny it with the back and forth of her head. I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. She swallows the lump in her throat and tries to force a smile.

"Remember the lunch in the park last year? When that old man brought out his fiddle and started playing?" she says, voice cracking dangerously. I smile.

"Yeah. At first no one really noticed, but then that little boy grabbed his sister by the hands and started dancing. Everybody started joining in. Even the people selling stuff from stalls by the road," I continue. It's a favorite memory of mine, so I know why she brought it up.

"And then those two Peacekeepers. They left their posts for a minute to dance," she says, a quivering laugh breaking through the tearful shake of her voice.

"And he played that old folk song and everybody sang along," I say with a smile. I'd loved that. I really enjoy singing, but, to be honest, my voice is terrible. I enjoyed being able to belt out the familiar notes as loudly as I could, without subjecting anyone to actually having to hear me.

"Then, when he finished, everyone went back to doing what they were doing and we finished our lunch. But then the Peacekeepers waved at us at we left…" she whispers, and emotion takes over her. She wraps me up in a tight hug and pulls me close. "Don't let go of my hand," she hisses almost silently, her lips brushing my ears.

Wait… what?

She pulls back, and her eyes are full of tears again. "G- goodbye, Kaden. I'll see you when you win," she says. She doesn't let go of me, however, and pulls me to my feet. I start to ask what she's doing, but she clamps her hand over my mouth.

She knocks on the door and the Peacekeeper opens it. He sees me behind her and opens his mouth to call for help, but Aunt Clara saves him the trouble of making a sound. She drops her hat to the ground, and reveals what was hidden in it: a gun. And old-fashioned gun, probably pre-Panem antique. I have a stunned moment to wonder whether or not that can even fire before I get my answer. Yes, it can, because she shoots the Peacekeeper in the leg.

Aunt Clara opens into a run, dragging me behind her. I almost trip over my own feet, because I'm gawking back at the man writhing on the ground. I've seen people get shot - it happened a lot during the war - but never by my own _aunt_. Sure, she shot him somewhere he'd probably just be incapacitated rather than dead, but I can still hardly believe it.

We're mostly down the hall by the time the other Justice Building staff have rallied well enough to counter what I have finally begun to process is Aunt Clara's escape attempt. I can hardly believe that she's even trying this; we'll be gunned down! It takes another moment before I realize we're _not _being gunned down. Why aren't we? Finally someone takes a shot that burrows into the wall above Aunt Clara's head. I begin to put together that the Peacekeepers don't mind shooting _her _to death, but they're worried about hurting their tribute.

Which doesn't really make sense, considering that the whole point is to kill me anyway. Oh, well. I'm not about to complain.

Aunt Clara takes another shot, this time at the man who's returning fire. I have to admit I almost throw up when this shot hits him in the stomach. I don't know if he'll walk away from that.

_It's… it's self defense. And _me _defense. He was shooting at us, _I rationalize.

Still, my favorite aunt just killed someone. Shot him right through. She doesn't even seem upset, just as grimly determined as ever.

_Bangbangbang_. Another round of shot ring out. One of them hits Aunt Clara in the arm, but luckily for us not her shooting arm. Unluckily for me, this happens to be the arm attached to the hand holding onto mine. I wince at it slams it and out through her elbow, and Aunt Clara screams. Blood leaks from the wound, down her arm, and over my hand. It's hot and sticky and makes me want to throw up.

There's a crowd of staff members at the door, ready to stop us. Aunt Clara doesn't slow down, and at first I think she plans to ram straight through them. At the last moment she swerves, taking refuge behind the abandoned front desk. Shots immediately begin pinging off of it. Luckily, it's Capitol-grade and made of metal, so we're safe as long as we're behind it.

"Stay down. As soon as it's safe, I'll shoot out the window. I'll clear as much of the glass as possible, but you _will _get cut. You're going to have to jump out of it, and then run." She pauses briefly to pop up from behind the desk and fire a volley of shots to keep the Peacekeepers and Capitol staff away. She ducks again and turns back to me. "Don't stop for anything, okay? You'll have to find a hole in the fence, or climb over it. You won't be able to come back. I'll cover you as long as I can, okay?"

I'm a little stunned. All of this is too much, all at once. I don't respond and Aunt Clara grabs my shoulder and shakes me.

"Okay?" She growls, and I nod feebly. She peeks her head around once and almost gets it blown off. Immediately she turns and fires a number of shots into the window. She drops the gun - I guess it must be empty - and to my utter shock pulls out a second one.

"Go," she hisses and dives back into the hall. Immediately everyone at the door begins to fire at her and I force myself to dart out of the safety of the desk and through the large, now mostly glassless window. With all attention focused on the woman with the gun, I'm out the window and over the front lawn almost before anyone realizes I've moved.

Aunt Clara was right about the window. Its sharp edges cut deeply into my palms where I forgot myself and grabbed onto it for balance, and leave smaller cuts on my legs where they brushed them.

I sprint, ignoring the blood staining my clothes and the wounds with their throbbing. I hear people shouting back in the Justice Building, and guess it's about me. I'm soon proved right. Three uniformed Peacekeepers race after me, preceded by two large dogs. They don't shoot at me, at least, but one of them is carrying something that I somehow doubt is a box of chocolates.

Cracks continue from the Justice Building for a few more moments, and then fall silent. I can hardly even think about what that could mean for Aunt Clara. In fact, I can't. I can't even begin to process the idea of dying. Of disappearing. Of ending.

I don't let myself slow down. If she died, she died trying to save me. I won't waste that. Luckily, none of the passersby try to get in my way. I guess they're all too stunned by the chase enfolding in front of them or sympathize enough with me to hope I escape. Apparently, none of them sympathize enough to intervene on my behalf, but I can't blame them.

It doesn't take me long to figure out that the dogs are gaining on me pretty quickly. Another few seconds and one lunges at me. Its huge paws slam against my back, knocking me to the ground. It clamps its teeth into my sleeve, bracing itself to prevent me from moving anywhere. Before I can even get back to my feet, the second bites into the leg of my dress pants. Neither of the animals hit flesh, though, so I assume they're either mutts or just fabulously well trained.

The Peacekeepers catch up very quickly. They shove the animals off and drag me to my feet, being noticeably less gentle than their animals. One jabs a syringe full of something into my neck and injects me with whatever chemical is in it.

That was not a box of chocolates, I can now say with absolute certainty.

Almost immediately, my vision begins to swim. My thoughts go fuzzy and then my brain shuts off, before I can even think of an upside to this.

Which might be good. Maybe for the first time, there isn't one.


	11. Smart Aleck

**A/N**- The following character was submitted by LoveTheBoyWithTheBread.

* * *

I'm awoken by my mother's voice.

"Euli, dearest. It's time to wake up, sweetheart!"

I almost groan out loud. Dearest. Sweetheart. Mother's trying too hard to love me, as always. She and father don't seem to get the hint; no matter how many times I sass back. Oh, well. Maybe they'll get the picture someday. Even though I got sick and tired of this about five years ago, they still seem to think I'm starving for affection. Really, all I'm starving for is three meals a day - as my ribs point out every time I look at them.

"Euli, dear, are you-" I hear my mother call.

"I'm _coming! _I _do _have to get dressed, right? Or do you want me heading to the reaping in my pajamas? Yeah. That's what I thought," I bellow. I swing my legs out of bed, pulling the covers off of my bed. I consider fixing it up, but decide not to. Who really cares? Nobody but Eutopia ever comes in my room anyway.

I rub my watery eyes. Stupid allergies.

Waking across the room to a bar sticking out of the wall holds my clothing, I stretch a little. My back cracks loudly and I make a face. That certainly didn't sound good.

I look half-heartedly at my very small "closet". I may come from a stable home, but not a rich one. I have a grand total of one dress, three shirts, two pair of pants, and two pairs of shoes. I pull of the dress and look for a moment at the faded blue fabric. It's my sister's old dress, and it's been around longer than I like to admit. But the design is beautiful and there's really no other choice, so it'll do.

I pull it on, smoothing out my collar and sleeves. Pulling on my pair of dress shoes, I hesitate. I'm not ready to go downstairs and face my parents' smothering affection. I never will be, of course, but I can put it off for at least a little while.

I scoop up my wooden hairbrush and tiptoe into my parents' room, afraid that the tiniest noise will have my mother calling my name and some ridiculous term of endearment up the stairs again. Luckily the door to their room is already open and I slip inside in almost complete silence.

My father is snoring loudly. I'm not surprised that all of my mother's shouting didn't even wake him. He was working the ten PM to five AM shift, and I doubt anything will get him out of bed until Mother has to drag him to his feet a half an hour before the reaping actually starts. Whatever else I can (and do, frequently) say about my parents, they're good people.

Now if they'd leave me alone for five seconds of my life, I might be able to occasionally enjoy their presence.

I walk silently to my parents' heirloom mirror. One thing concrete floors do that I appreciate is not squeak when I'm sneaking around. I look into the mirror. Well, I look just the same as I did yesterday. There's a surprise.

I start combing my hair, looking at my too large ears, too small nose, too thin eyelashes, too busy eyebrows, and too large head. Well, at least my hair is nice, with its dark brown shoulder-length curls. After about five minutes I hear my mother's voice call me again and I sigh. I guess I'm out of time.

I clomp out the door, not caring about being heard anymore. I swing around the corner of the hallway into the kitchen, grab a pulpy apple from the bowl on the table, and keep right on marching.

"W-where are you going, sweetheart?" my mother calls from where she's boiling water at the stove.

"Work," I say bluntly, and let the door bump shut on its own. Of course, I'm not _really_ going to do any work, but it's better than having mom asking me questions about every second of my seventeen years of life.

"Euli!" I hear someone's voice call from behind me. I recognize my sister's voice, so I stop and wait with uncharacteristic patience. She catches up with me quickly, huffing a little. Eutopia was eighteen for the first reaping, so she only had to go through this once. But really, I'm glad she's safe. She's one of the residents of People-Euliptia-Actually-Cares-AboutVille. Population of two, by the way.

"What- was that all about?" she pants, following me as I begin to walk away again.

"What do you think it was about? Same thing as always," I answer mildly. "Mom was getting annoying."

"You shouldn't talk to her that way, Euli," Eutopia says. I sigh. She's almost as insistent that I behave myself for our parents as they are about forcing their affection on me. But I put up with it because I care about her.

"Well, I'm going to work. I'll see you later?" I ask.

"Alright, Euli," Eutopia sighs, and gives me a hug around my shoulders. I smile a little and pat her hand. Eutopia turns back for home and a real breakfast, although to be honest it's probably not going to be too much more impressive than my apple. And I can probably get something form the cafeteria at work. I have a little bit of money left from last payday.

The walk to work feels electric; everyone is scared about the reaping. But not me. Why take stuff like this seriously? I mean, the odds of getting picked are low enough for even me, who never tries at all at our District's sciency stuff, to understand that it's barely even a possibility that I'll be picked. Plus, worrying doesn't change anything, except for making you so much more miserable beforehand. So, I just ignore it.

As I arrive at the door the attendant clips the white wristband labeled "E. A. Gre." Euliptia Adrinicka Grenniale. My full name. Everyone is required to put on the wristband with the abbreviated version of his or her name on it when they come into work. I won't be able to get it off until the attendant removes it for me when I leave.

I push open the heavy doors into the main lab where I work, drifting to my cubicle as I crunch on my apple. I throw the core into someone's trashcan and stop. I turn on my heel and head to Danmark's personal lab first. I have another hour before I need to be in the square. I don't knock before pushing the door open and Danmark jumps visibly as I enter.

"Jeeze, Tia. Don't do that!" he sighs, a smile already creeping back onto his face.

"Fine. Next time I _won't _open the door before I come in. I'll just walk right through the wall," I quip, but it holds none of the bite my comments to other people do. Danmark is the other resident of People-Euliptia-Actually-Cares-AboutVille.

I drift to his table, picking up a bottle of chemicals and pouring it carefully into a vial.

"Uh, Tia, what are you-" Danmark begins nervously, but he's interrupted by a small bang as I mix in another chemical. He gags at the smell as I cackle in glee. He looks a little scared of the horrible odor and the bang, but I know exactly what I'm doing. No one can say that all that time slacking off and playing with chemicals hasn't made me an expert on what they'll do when you mix them together.

After a moment Danmark begins to laugh incredulously, too; and a goofy relieved smile brightens up his face, but he jumps again as the door slams open.

"What was that? What was that explosion?" gasps Carmelly Kellitle, her royal Head Scientist.

"I don't know. It could have been your brain imploding. You haven't been trying to think again, have you?" I gasp sarcastically. Kellitle's eyes narrow and her look of alarm is replaced by a familiar scowl.

"Oh. Miss Grenniale. I must admit, I'm a lot less worried than I was when I thought Mr. Bellvan had an...accident."

"Oh, don't worry. No accidents here. I was just helping Danmark with his workload for tomorrow. Right, Danmark?"

"Uh..." my friend stutters, but he doesn't have to answer because Kellitle's eyes flash and bore into my mockingly innocent smile.

"Helping _Danmark _with work? Shouldn't you be doing your _own _work, Miss Grenniale? Y ou haven't completed even one of your research projects in the last four months," she growls.

"Well, you see, I _thought _about doing all that stuff, but blowing up chemicals is more fun, so I did that instead," I say, packing as much insolence into my voice as I possibly can. This is just too fun. Danmark's not enjoying it, though. He never does. But I'm nice to him and he's optimistic enough to just focus on that and not feel too guilty when I mouth off at people.

Kellitle's jaw works for a moment and I swear the glare from her eyes sends the heat up about five degrees. "May I speak to you in the hall, Miss Grenniale?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm sure that whatever you have to say is just as devastatingly brilliant in here as it is in the hall."

There's a moment of roiling silence. But I make no move toward the door, and soon Kellitle sighs.

"Euliptia...You're a smart girl. A _very _smart girl. Why do you...are you _trying _not to succeed?" she says. Her voice has taken on an aspect of pleading.

Without missing a beat I snort, "No! What kind of idiot would do _that_?"

The sincerity on Kellitle's face vanishes instantly. "Alright then, Miss Grenniale. Since you obviously try your absolute hardest but lab work is still too difficult for you, you're going to be transferred to loading chemical waste to be taken to the treatment center. You'll report tomorrow at five forty-five tomorrow for orientation. And I expect your laboratory to be packed up and cleaned by the end of the day," she spits, turns on her heel, and marches out the door, slamming it behind her.

Danmark and I stand with our mouths hanging open.

"Oh my...jeeze. Holy... Dang, Tia!" he stutters, stunned.

"I guess I...better go pack up my stuff," I say blankly, still reeling. But immediately my good sense starts flowing back into me, and I make one of my famous snap decisions.

"C'mon," I order, sweeping out of his office.

"Wow. Um, loading chemicals. That'll be...heavy. You're going to get...strong," Danmark offers weakly, putting his characteristic optimistic spin on the situation. In all reality, I am going to get crushed. I'm stick thin, with no muscle mass to speak of. But you know what? You just can't let these things get you down. Don't take it seriously, just like the reaping. And now I was going to go out with a bang, have a little fun.

I threw open the door and let it slam hard against the wall. Like all the personal labs, mine was tiny. But I had big plans for this little cubicle. I throw out my few personal items to take home, and rub my hands together.

"Let's get started, shall we?" I whisper.

"Tia..." Danmark says quietly.

I grab a huge pot, throwing in a couple of my very favorite chemicals. They hiss and stink, bubbling and turning a nasty dark orange color. I smile wolfishly and set them over the burner as Danmark watches helplessly. He coughs helplessly as the mixture begins to smoke.

"Lighten up," I dismiss. "What're they going to do? Fire me again? I can pretty much guarantee I'd like anything they could throw at me better than chemical loading."

The next twenty minutes pass in a flurry of chemical sprays, until the walls look like a spectacular rainbow threw up on them. And then exploded. And now for the piece de resistance. I pull the pot off the burner, inhaling the stench with abnormal glee. "Better back up, Danmark. This could be messy."

I upend the burning sludge all over the chair and desk, pouring it into every little crevice and piece of equipment in my lab. Well, maybe "pour " isn't quite the right verb, because it's incredibly thick and flows out of the pot slowly. Ridiculously slowly. It's disgusting. It's perfect.

I step back, avoiding getting splattered for the most part, although a little does drip onto my dress. Well, I'm not too upset. Maybe I'll finally get a new one now.

I scoop up my coat, my notebook, and my pens. I grin at a stunned Danmark, "See you at the reaping, kid."

I whirl out through the door, leaving my reeking cubicle behind me. I march through the maze of desks and enclosed personal labs to the door in the front of the building. I breeze out the front door and kick it closed behind me for the last time. Good riddance.

"Euli, darling, what...what happened?" my father splutters as I march in the door.

"They fired me. I'm going to start loading chemical waste tomorrow morning," I chirp, grabbing somebody's piece of dry toast and dropping my pile of office junk on the floor. "Bye!"

And before my drowsy father can get a word in edgewise I'm back out the door the way I came, the whole piece of toast in my mouth. I'm halfway to the square when I realize that I'm still wearing the stupid plastic wristband with my name on it. I groan. Wonderful. I made my grand exit, but forgot to get my band taken off. I stop and hesitate. Do I really have time to go back? I bite my lip before deciding that it's not worth the risk. If I don't get back in time and they catch me skipping, I could be in serious trouble. I may not respect authority figures, but I respect weapons pointed at my head and body, which could be exactly how things turn out if I don't get there in time.

I hurry on to the District Square. I get there with about fifteen minutes left. Okay. Not going back to work was definitely the right choice.

"Euli!" calls Eutopia from the edge of the crowd. I elbow my way to her viciously, telling off anyone who doesn't move after the first jab.

Eutopia gives me a quick hug, and is just about to say something when my mother pounces.

"Oh, darling, are you alright? You must be scared. And- oh, Honey! What happened to your dress?"

I sigh. It figures. After about five minutes of my parents' idiotic cooing I run back for the cover of the section of the square marked off for seventeen-year-old kids. And just in time, too, because the mayor clears his throat loudly into the microphone and begins the reaping.

As he reads through the "Treaty of Treason", which is mostly a pack of lies about how terrible the rebels were and how benevolent and forgiving the Capitol is, I let my mind wander. I'm not too worried, quite honestly.

And then bounces forth our "escort", the infamous Lee Lee. Nobody's really sure if that's his first and last name, or some stupid nickname he made up for himself. And quite honestly, who cares enough to find out?

"And the lucky District 6 girl heading into the Hunger Games this year is...Euliptia Grenniale!"

I'm stunned. Me? That's...absurd. But it is me.

I don't need anyone to push me to get me started toward the stage like some kids do. I go up there like the intelligent, capable human being I am. And if there's one thing I do well, it's being decisive. No half-baked attempts at anything for me. I'm stronger than that.

I take my place on stage, just waiting to insult the green streaks in Lee Lee's hair if he tries to talk to me or even shake my hand, but much to my surprise he ignores me. He bounces to the boys' ball like I don't even exist. His hand plunges in and he trills, "Neon Bing!"

A boy who must be Neon moves out of the crowd. I recognize him well enough. He's the guy with the weird parents that hangs out with some of Eutopia's friends sometimes. I've never met him but I've seen him around. To be honest he sounds _bo_ring. But that's okay. Better boring than actual competition.

And before I know it the mayor's closing the ceremony and I'm being hustled away.

I'm lead to the Justice Building and locked in a small room. It's nice enough, and well taken care of, but it's tiny. It gets even smaller when my parents rush in, sobbing pathetically.

"Oh, darling, sweetheart, Euli. Oh, no, no, no! I'm so sorry, I'm so..." my mother wails.

"We love you, sweetheart. You know that, right?" my father pleads. Of course I know it. They've spent every waking moment telling me. What he's really asking for is the affirmation that I love them, too. I hesitate for a moment.

_I'm going to have to be a good person here, aren't I? _I think to myself miserably.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure, Dad. Uh, you guys, too."

And that's all that it takes to send them into hysterics until they're dragged away. Wow. They're pretty pathetic. The door shuts behind them and for a moment there's silence, and then it begins to open slowly. If a door can possibly look hesitant, this one does.

Eutopia steps in, closing the door painstakingly behind her. She stands with her back up against it for a moment before she crosses the four or five feet to where I'm sitting on some sort of overly cushy chair. She squeezes onto the chair with me and put her arms around my shoulder, shaking slightly as she's trying not to cry.

"Oh, Euli," she whispers.

I don't know what to say for once, so I just lean into her hug. I may never see her again, so I'm going to enjoy having her with me while I still can. After a moment she sucks in a breath, trying to hold on to her composure.

"Please, Euli. You know what you have to do. Just…go and do it. You can't let anyone or anything stop you. Please."

I nod and return her hug. For a minute we sit, until Eutopia stands.

"I guess…there's not much else to say," she says with a breathy laugh. "I- I love you."

"Yeah. You too," I say. And this time I mean it.

Eutopia turns and walks out the door with her back straight and her face set, but as she disappears I can hear her break into a run, her steps echoing down the hallway.

Danmark slips in before the door even clicks shut. He looks miserable, but I can tell he's got more hope than the rest of my family. Of course he does, the little eternal optimist. I smile. I'm glad I got to see Danmark last. None of that weepy stuff for him.

"Well, you're not going to have to load chemical waste anymore," he offers. I chuckle. "And now they can't punish you for destroying your office. Heck, when you come back, no one will be to punish for anything. Like, ever!"

"And I'll be rich enough to sit around on my lazy butt all day and eat…expensive stuff," I say happily.

"Yeah," Danmark says, but his smile is fading. "Still…I wish you weren't in danger. I mean, a lot of people are going to die."

"Hey, what are you worrying about me for? You've got to deal with sitting through four more reapings. And you have to keep working for Kettle Head," I say, pulling a sarcastic nickname for Kellitle right out of my butt. It would have been better, I'm sure, if I'd had more time to work on it. Oh, well. This'll have to do for now.

Danmark smiles, and opens his mouth to say something, but the Peacekeeper at the door comes in and takes his arm, leading him toward the door. Danmark struggles in confusion. I should have twenty minutes left with him, since there's no one else in the District who would visit me.

"Hey, Buttface!" I growl at the Peacekeeper, "We're not done yet!"

Buttface's head snaps to look at me and I can just imagine what sort of thoughts he's having at the moment. His mouth opens and closes a few times like he's debating whether or not to call me the names that are running through his mind. Eventually he spits out, "You have another visitor, although I can't imagine why," and he drags Danmark away.

And I can't for the life of me figure out who might be coming in to see me. And it's…Kellitle, which doesn't explain anything.

I let my bored-by-your-very-existence look fall over my eyes, cross my arms, and wait for her to say something. But she doesn't. She crosses to me, takes my hand, shakes it, and sits down. And we just sit for the next fifteen minutes, sort of sharing the silence. It's…nice, I guess, but I would rather have spent my last minutes before I leave with Danmark or Eutopia.

Eventually she stands, says, "Good luck. I hope you win, no matter how much you and I may have disagreed." And then she leaves.

I don't really understand what went on in our goodbye, but that's okay. I don't understand her and she sure as heck doesn't understand me. And I don't think that'll ever really change.

As I'm hustled to the train, I wave goodbye and smile jauntily. I'll be back, because I'm going to fight hard for it, for the people who matter to me. There may not be many of them, but I'll do anything for those few. And that includes winning.

Goodbye Eutopia, goodbye Danmark. I'll see you in a month.


	12. Think On It

**A/N**- The following character was submitted by Nice Career. He also marks the halfway point for the reapings. Yay!

* * *

_…and it won't be enough energy to start the reaction. But if you use a really effective catalyst, then maybe-_

"Neon!" my mother crows from the next room. I jump a little, banging my head against the hanging model of an engine. I rub my head in annoyance. I put that up when I was much younger, and I've grown since then. It's high time I shortened the cord. Maybe I'll get around to it tomorrow. I doubt it. I'm in the grips of creation and not in any hurry to distract my attention from my work.

"Yes?" I call back, trying to hide my annoyance.

"Don't you want any breakfast?" my mother asks in a sing-song voice. It's not an offer to cook, she just expects me to be as absent-minded as my father. Really, I'm not the sort to forget to eat. Well, usually. Maybe I would have… put it off indefinitely at the moment, but I wouldn't have _starved _myself. I'm smarter than that.

"No, I'm busy," I call back. "I'll eat after… after the Reaping,"

Assuming, of course, that there is an after. It's always possible there won't be. I'd like to dismiss the slight possibility of my being reaped, but it's impossible to do so. Quite frankly, I know I could die horribly in less than a week.

Great. Now I highly doubt I'll be able to focus on my inventions. I push my chair back and sigh, massaging my temples. Back to the facts. Always the facts.

There aren't a lot of people in District 6. It's always been one of the smallest. Despite this, there are hundreds of kids up for the reaping today, and about two thirds them have been entered for every reaping, making three entries. There are thousands of slips to be drawn. Only three of them have my name on them. Statistically, it is possible but not likely that I will be the taken boy.

Going quickly through the numbers makes me feel a little better, but the spell of invention has been broken; and that crumb of doubt has been lodged, buzzing, in my brain. I'll never be able to focus now, and I don't want to make some silly math error and throw off all my careful calculations. I sigh and stand, shoving my worn chair back and almost knocking it over. I slink away fro my desk, dreading the moment I'll step off my worn rug and onto the cold concrete. Or at least, onto something that's not as warm and soft. The side of my room devoted to being a small workshop is cluttered with everything that might come in handy as I tinker, so it's possible I'll step on a coil of wire or sheet of metal instead of the floor. No nails, though. I learned not to leave _those _lying around the painful way.

The workshop side of my room, with its mess and confusion, is in stark contrast to the half I live in, which is impeccably neat and almost entirely without frills. I guess my room is a reflection of me. I'm usually very put-together and straightforward, but when I get working my mind sort of… grows branches. I can never stick to one thought, and making my mind up on any one plan tends to open up about two more decisions to make. It's a bad habit, but I can't help it. There are too many processes to test, inventions to be made, new things to be discovered. It never ceases to amaze me how far the human race still has to go. But I think it's a good thing that we're still in the process of discovering. Who wants to live in a stagnated world?

I walk from my bedroom and workspace into the main room of my house. It functions as kitchen, living room, and dining room, and only having to furnish one room instead of three has allowed us to do so simply but nicely.

I slump to the cupboard, taking down a tin of coffee. I put a pot of water on the stove to boil and slump into a chair at the table. Now that my mind has been so rudely pulled out of my experiments, I'm beginning to crash. I stayed up far too late last night drawing out schematics, and then woke up at the usual time this morning to tinker some more. Bad idea on my part, but I can't say I wish I'd slept in.

After a few minutes the kettle begins to whistle, and I switch the stove off. I make a pot of coffee and pour myself a cup, leaving the rest on the counter for my parents. I'm tempted to add some milk and sugar, but decide against it. The stuff is like gold. Only tastier.

A minute or two later, someone raps on the front door. I peek out the window before opening the door, seeing Argon shuffling his feet out on the porch. My parents always joked that, since he spent so much time over at our house and was named after an element like me, he was their long-lost second son. Really, it's not much of a laughing matter. Argon's family have never been the best, and I'm pretty sure his father hits him sometimes. So Argon shows up at my house as often as not, and my parents make jokes to help them deal with the grim reality. Even if their jokes are a little insensitive. I think I inherited my own inappropriate sense of humor from my parents.

I pull the door open. "Morning, Argon."

"G' Morning. It okay if I just wait around at your house?" he asks, a little tentatively. Most people spend the day with their close friends, on the off chance that one of them is taken for the Hunger Games, but it's clear he still feels a little uncomfortable butting in on my family time.

"Sure, no problem. You know my parents'll put up with you," I say, waving my arm grandly and welcoming him in.

"What about you?" he teases.

I sniff haughtily. "I'll grace you with my presence, if you mind your manners."

"Yessir," he agrees, laughing.

"Want something to eat?" I ask, hoping he says no. We're not starving, but we still don't have too much extra to go around. But Argon brightens and nods happily. I wonder if he had anything at home before he came to my place. It wouldn't surprise me if he didn't.

"Okay. Well, we've got leftover stew from last night. It's cold, but..."

"Yeah. Yeah, that'll be great. Thanks," he says, sitting on the kitchen table.

I scoop the stew out into a bowl and put it down in front of him. He attacks it almost before I hand him a spoon, and it's a little mesmerizing to watch him eat. I don't know how he can swallow at the rate he's shoveling stew into his mouth, much less chew it at all. I sit down in a chair on the opposite side of the table and finish off my coffee.

"So, you going to-" he begins, but my mother swoops down before he can say anything and scolds him.

"Argon Flannery, you get your back end off my table _now_. People have to eat off that, you know!" she exclaims, brandishing a hairbrush warningly. Argon jumps off the table so quickly he almost drops the bowl.

"Sorry!" he yelps, and he stands in awkward silence for a minute, until my mother's face breaks into a grin.

"Now, welcome. It's nice to see you, dear," she chirps, giving him a one-armed hug around the stew bowl. He smiles back and returns her hug. He knew she wouldn't stay mad for long. She never does. It's sort of a game they play, though. She pretending to be stern and he pretending to be afraid of her. Their record is about two minutes.

"I see Neon fed you already?" she says, scooping the bowl out of his hands and carrying it to the counter.

"Yeah. It was really good. Thanks," he says, sitting down again. My mother takes a quick glance out of the corner of her eye to ascertain that he's on a chair instead of the table this time and turns back to our cheap sink, satisfied.

"Oh, don't thank me. Zinc does the cooking around here. I'm just the looks of this whole 'housekeeping' business," she sniffs breezily. Argon and I laugh, because we know that's not true. She does just as much around the house as my dad, although it's true we (for our own safety) don't let her cook. And no offense to my mom, but she's not really 'the looks' of anything. She's always a little wrinkled and mussed, like she just took a nap and forgot to brush up afterwards.

"Okay. Well, I'll have to thank him too, then. Later," he says. My mother takes a backwards glance down the hall.

"Yes. Well, he should be up. I just went and woke him. What is _taking _that man so long? Zinc? Zinc?" my mother says, whirling on her heel and marching back to my parents' room. I resist the urge to point out to her that it's been maybe a minute since she got here. My mother's very go-go-go. She's got enough energy for all three of us, and my father knew that when he married her. He got himself into that mess, and he can deal with the consequences.

"What were you gonna ask me?" I say to Argon.

"Hm?"

"Earlier. You were asking me if I was going to do something, and then Mom barged in."

"Oh. Huh. I don't remember anymore," he says, frowning.

"Oh, well. It was probably stupid anyway, knowing you," I taunt.

"Hey," he says mildly, knowing me well enough not to be offended.

"I only speak the truth, Argie," I say, lacing my fingers behind my head.

"Don't call me that," he orders, a little tiredly. I know it bugs him, which is exactly why I do it.

"What? You're not even going to fight back? Boring! I'm disappointed in you," I scold, clucking my tongue.

"Ugh. It's _way_ too early in the morning for banter," he grumbles, and I laugh. Victory goes to me, then.

We sit in silence for another moment. Normally Argon and I are more than familiar enough to comfortably say nothing for a lot longer than this, but the inherent tension of today makes it awkward for once. I clear my throat.

"How'd you do on the chemistry test?" I prompt. Argon winces.

"Not as well as you did, that's for sure," he sighs. "I barely passed. Chemistry... isn't my strong subject. Too many fiddly little numbers."

"But that's the best part! The threat that one little miscalculation will throw the experiment off and your whole house will go up and in flames and you'll be blown to smithereens? Best thrill there is! What's fun without a little risk?" I protest.

"Yeah. Sure, whatever you say," Argon replies, eyebrow raised; obviously unable to tell whether or not I'm joking.

"Only kidding. Calm down," I say. Argon rolls his eyes.

We go on in much the same fashion for another hour or so, before heading off to the reaping. Argon is a year younger than I am, so he's in another section and I don't see him again before the ceremony starts. Which turns out to be a bad thing.

"Euliptia Grenniale!"

Kids begin whipping their heads around, trying to locate the unlucky victim. Some people look in the complete wrong direction, but I immediately seek out the seventeen-year-olds' section. I know Euliptia, vaguely. Her sister dated a friend of mine a while back. To be honest, it's almost hard to feel sorry for her. She's so awful to everyone. Well, not quite everyone. She seemed pretty close to her sister the few times I saw them together. Other than that, she seems nasty.

What can I say? I'm not one to sugarcoat things. But I soon get over any guilt for my rudeness to Euliptia, because karma finds a way to get me back almost immediately.

"Neon Bing!"

To be honest, my first reaction is a string of un-repeatable swear words. The second is the sudden realization that I don't have any sort of plan for this. I'd always just run through the numbers and shoved the possibility of being reaped out of my head. I try to settle on one in the moments I have before everyone's eyes are on me, but I can't decide how to present myself. This year, it's going to matter, too. It's not just your own skill that will make you win or lose. The Gamemakers will be pulling strings, too. If you present yourself wrong, you're dead.

That sends up a whole new level of panic, so I do the only thing I think will keep me under control: I try to shut down entirely. I can decide on a strategy for my public appearances later. Right now I just have to keep myself from bursting into tears or wetting myself or doing something else just as embarrassing.

Lee Lee, our new "escort", gestures toward Euliptia and me, announcing that we are the tributes of District 6.

Really, if anybody missed that, they haven't been paying enough attention.

The ceremony ends, and almost immediately people begin to disband. I can't blame them; last year and the year before I didn't stick around any longer than I absolutely had to, either. The sense of foreboding is thick and sickening. It's a smothering place right after the reaping.

"This way, please," a Peacekeeper barks, gesturing off the stage. Euliptia marches right past him, her nose in the air, stomping on his foot as she goes. I'm sure it's on purpose. Two or three more shadow her as she heads down to the Justice Building for our goodbyes. I follow directions more tentatively, making my way down the raised platform. I probably ought to hurry, so that I can have as long with my friends and family as possible. But then again, I don't even know how long I'm supposed to get. Do I have an hour, total? That's what I'd always expected. But maybe not. Maybe each visitor will only get five minutes, or something like that.

I eventually reach the room provided and sit down in the cushy armchair. It's probably the nicest chair in District 6, outside of Victors' Village. Too bad it's a throne for the condemned.

There's a short period of time before guests enter, and I wonder what the holdup is. Finally, my parents are admitted. My mother's usual energy is eaten up by shock and grief, and she moves like her entire body has turned to lead. My father's eyes, always set on some indistinct goal or complex new experiment, are unusually focused. He's been robbed of his dreamy vacancy, to be plunged into icy cold reality. It twists the sparking panic in my stomach into a constant roar, making me nauseous.

"You'll come home," my mother murmurs faintly. "You have to."

That does it. I fling myself at my parents, wrapping my arms around their necks. I can't stop shaking, but luckily I'm just barely able to bite back tears. Tears will be no ally in the arena.

_In the arena._

Oh. Oh, no. I think I'm going to be sick.

And I am. I push my parents away and empty the contents of my stomach all over the thick carpet. I moan miserably. Really, whoever designed humans to throw up in cases of extreme nerves should be fed to mutts. Stupid idea, in my opinion.

Someone's rubbing my back, whispering comfortingly to me. My father. It helps a little. I feel like a little kid again, and my childhood years weren't like this. Sad, maybe. Hard, sure. But even during the war District 6 escaped the worst of the fighting, and I never felt this clear threat of death hanging over my neck like a butcher's knife.

I wonder if any of the tributes this year will know how to handle a butcher's knife and almost get sick all over again.

My father pulls me up and holds me against him, not shrinking away from the vomit on my breath. "You'll win, Neon. You're smarter than them. All of them!"

"You don't know that," I whisper hoarsely.

"You have to be!" he exclaims. "You're smarter - you _are _- but you're not stronger. Don't try to best them with strength. You've got to outthink them!"

I wonder if he realizes that it's not as easy as all that. That I can't just wish really hard to be smart enough to murder twenty-three other kids. I guess not, because he's filled with a fierce, desperate intensity as he whispers instructions. It's my guess he's as much trying to convince himself as he is me. Well, all the pep talks in the world won't make me smarter enough to survive a slit throat or an acid spray. The arena is not a place for the smart. It is a place for primal violence.

"Okay. Okay, Dad," I whisper. "Yeah. I'll win. For… for you."

He nods, like this really decides anything. I feel guilty immediately. I'm not usually the sort to make and break promises, and I don't know if I can keep this one.

"Botany?" my father says, turning to my mother. She smiles vacantly and drifts toward me like a ghost. She kisses my cheek gently, still off in her own world.

"Goodbye, Argon. I love you. Have… fun, okay?" she croons, a dreamy smile floating across her face. Suddenly I'm worried about her. Being stunned is one thing, but this absent cheerfulness is somehow much more frightening. Is there something wrong with my mother?

I don't get to find out, because my father takes her by the arm and tows her out, shaking slightly. The door doesn't quite close behind him. A Peacekeeper catches it right before it closes and marches in crisply. "Visitors from this point on will be let inside in groups of five," he drones.

I take this to mean everyone in my extended group of friends has decided to visit. A lot of the time, more casual friends will hang back to give someone privacy with their family and closer friends, but I'm glad this isn't going to be the case for me. I want to give every one of my friends a last hug and a goodbye, just in case. It's not like only one or two of them matter to me.

My friends filter through. I manage not to cry once, although I get too close for my liking. People say a lot of the same things. That they love me. That they won't forget me if the worst happens. That I'm sure to win. That they'll kill me if I don't. Soon enough they begin to sort of blur together. I feel immediately guilty when I realize I don't remember exactly what each one of them said.

On the fifth group of assorted friends, only three people are let in, so I assume they're the last. I'm surprised to see Euliptia's sister as well as two of my friends named Rhit and Merrigan.

I give my two friends a gruff hug and turn to Eutopia. She smiles weakly and shakes my hand.

"Neon, you haven't given up, right? I mean, I've seen some of the other reapings; and some of those kids are scary, but it doesn't matter. Nothing's final 'til you're dead. So you don't get to decide ahead of time that there's no way you'll win, you get it?" Merrigan begins.

"Well, yeah, but-" I begin, but he continues.

"I know you're going to try to count yourself out, Neon. But you _can't_. The moment you do, there's no chance. You're a fast enough guy. You're smart. And don't try and tell me that doesn't matter. Look at last year! Eewyn was _way _smaller than that other guy. She'd hardly even used that knife before. But she won, because she tricked him. He let his guard down. It can _work_, Neon! You can win!"

He breathes heavily when he's through with his speech, like it was somehow exhausting. I guess it could have been. Expending a lot of emotion can get your heart pounding just like expending a lot of energy.

"Okay. Okay, I won't. Give up, that is," I say, and he nods seriously.

"I'm- I'm gonna go," he says, clearing his throat.

"Alright. Bye, Merrigan," I say, and we give each other one more quick hug.

He darts out the door and the doorman peeks in. "They're not done yet," I say, and he pulls backs.

"Wow. Um, I don't really know what to say," Rhit begins. I consider teasing her about her not-exactly-eloquent opening, but decide not to. It could be the last time I ever see Rhit. I don't need to be a jerk now.

"I bet everything's been pretty much covered by now," she continues, laughing breathily. "But… I still don't want to let you go without saying something, y'know? So, I guess… just remember you're my friend. Remember you're _all _of our friend. Merrigan's and Argon's and Laceine's, and… everybody's friend. We're all going to be rooting for you, and we'll all be cheering you on. If you win, we're all going to be here to welcome you back. So, no matter what happens, know we love you."

"Didn't need to tell me that, Rhit," I say gently. "I know that."

"Ha, yeah," she says weakly, rubbing at her watering eyes. "Still I just wanted to… get that out there."

I give Rhit another hug and she sniffles loudly. She doesn't leave like Merrigan did, but takes a seat on the armchair, eying the vomit on the floor suspiciously before turning back to watch Eutopia and me.

"So… Eutopia. I'm kind of surprised to see you here, honestly," I say. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but I don't really know you all that well."

"No. No, I know you don't. Actually, Neon, it's about my sister."

"Euliptia? What about her?" I ask, considering telling her I'm sorry her sister was reaped, but decide in my position I'm not exactly obligated to offer sympathy.

"She's… not the nicest girl around," Eutopia begins slowly. That's certainly the truth, but I can't imagine where she's going with this. "She's not the sort who makes friends easily or keeps them easily."

"If you're asking me to ally with her… I don't know, Eutopia. I 'm not sure if I want any allies at all. And besides, I doubt she'd-"

"No, I'm not asking you to ally with Euliptia," she says, shuffling her feet. "It's just… don't be the one to kill her."

"What?" I ask.

"Just don't kill her. I couldn't stand it if she died and I had to look the person who murdered her in the face every day. Please, I-"

"How _dare _you?" growls Rhit from behind me. I'm a little surprised by Eutopia's request-asking me not to kill Euliptia is a little like asking me to put her life ahead of my own-but Rhit looks positively murderous.

"How _dare _you barge in here, while he's being sent off to the Hunger Games, and tell him he needs to give special treatment to your sister? She's not the only person who has people who care about her, you know. Just because she's an utter bi-"

"Rhit!" I chide.

"-jerk," she amends. "And has alienated everyone enough that I bet half the people in this District _want _her dead doesn't mean you get to tell him he should die just so you can sleep easier at night.

"Get out of here. You should be ashamed of yourself," she hisses. Eutopia looks taken aback, but draws herself up to her full height to glare at Rhit. The two girls stand for a moment, and I swear they look like they're about to take each other on right here in the goodbye room, but then Eutopia whirls to me.

"Think on it," she says tersely, and marches away.

I do. I think on it as Rhit is led away by Peacekeepers and I'm taken to the train. I think on it as reporters snap pictures of Euliptia and me. I think on it as she barges past me to get onto the train, knocking me hard against the metal door.

By the time the train sets off I've thought on it enough, and reached a sickening decision.

If the time comes, I will kill Euliptia Grenniale. If the time comes, I will kill all of them.

Does that make me evil?

I decide I'll have to think on it.


	13. Rhythm and Change

**A/N**- Ick. Ickickick, I can't believe how long this took me to update. I'm so sorry. Just know I don't consider this normal, and am going to try very hard to get you another chapter soon. Unfortunately, with my laptop down, I can only write at home, which isn't very often during the summer. This character was brought to you by LaynieBird.

* * *

_Thud. _"Umph!"

_Thud. _"Umph!"

_Thud. _"Umph!"

District 7 has a rhythm. A pulse. The pounding of axes is a weak imitation of the pounding of a heart, but it's hard to spend as much time chopping wood as I do and not make the connection. Trees are the lifeblood of this grim District, and the crack-suck of axes against trees is the heartbeat.

_Thud. _"Umph!"

I take a short break, wiping my sleeve across my face. I'm tired. I'll be sweaty and dirty by the time the reaping rolls around, but there's really no alternative. As much as my mother might like to pretend we don't need the money, we do. Everybody does, here. Even the tiny spattering of shopkeepers is a collective of grim, practical folk.

I stretch my back, wincing as it twinges. Swinging an axe for hours on end is not exactly a complicated job, but it does take a toll on your back and neck and arms and…well, a lot of your body. By the time the Capitol forces you to retire, you're likely to be bent over forward, missing a finger or two. Assuming you don't get crushed by a falling tree like my father did.

_Thud. _"Umph!"

It's not his fault, I know. He followed the safety protocols. They just aren't good enough. Still, it's hard not to resent him for being stuck in bed all day, doing whatever sewing or knit work we can scrape together for him. We don't have any illusions he will ever walk again; he's really just a drag on our resources now. But what can we do? It's not practical to keep supporting him, but he's our husband and father. Even we aren't pragmatic enough to turn him out to starve.

_Thud. _"Umph!"

Five years ago, this wouldn't have been a problem. District 7 was considerably better off. We'd always been a dedicated District, and the Capitol rewarded loyalty. Then the rebellion came. We remained loyal, fighting on the side of the Capitol. Imagine our surprise when they halved our pay and tripled our quotas. When they informed us our children would be entered into the Hunger Games.

_Thud. _"Umph!"

I give myself another quick break. I'm in fairly good shape, but I'm not a high-ranked enough employee to merit an electric saw, so I have to do everything by hand. After an hour, even an experienced chopper like myself has an excuse to be winded.

No, no excuses. Excuses only get in the way of progress. If I let myself be pacified with excuses, I would never find the time to study. I would never get to be a doctor. And I'm determined I will be. District 7's one proper doctor is getting old, and has agreed she will take me on as an apprentice when I graduate. It's my chance, and I won't let anything keep me from it.

_Thud. _"Umph!"

My parents don't think my goal is realistic. I don't know why not. Perhaps I'll never be like one of those Capitol surgeons, saving people at the moment before death with technology that verges on magic, but I can still do good things here. I know I can. There's no point in giving up. I never give up. District 7 never gives up. If there's one quality that will help our tributes it will be our pigheadedness.

Even last year's girl was a perfect example of our resolve. Even after she went crazy, it took her a long time to give up. She did eventually, of course. Sawed her wrists open with her own sharp, broken fingernails. Took her a long time, too. It was awful, but I guess you could say that even in killing herself she didn't give up. She stuck through that self-inflicted pain for longer than I could have to achieve her goal.

_Thud._ "Umph!"

"Caprice?"

I glance over my shoulder. Symon Ybarra blinks at me, his huge blue eyes a little confused. "What are you doing here so early?" he asks.

"Same thing as you, I guess," I tell him, going back to my chopping.

"Well, yeah, but you look like you've been here for a long time already, and the reaping isn't for another… three hours, almost," he says, cocking his head inquisitively.

I shuffle my feet a little, uncomfortable. Why should Symon care? He's not really my friend, only an acquaintance. Even then, we only really socialize because we often find ourselves the two outcasts in any given room. We'd been in the same class for as long as we'd been in school and never really been accepted. Me due to my quiet nature, and Symon due to his severe harelip. We'd never bonded, been friends, just mutual odd ones out. After I dropped out last year to work full-time, we'd only grown more distant. Usually our interaction for the entire day consisted entirely of nodding at each other if we happened to pass.

"So? I need the money. It's not like sleeping in is worth the wasted time," I say gruffly. Symon doesn't wince at my sour tone; one of the drawbacks of being a generally withdrawn person is that people don't seem to notice the difference between a just-feeling-shy voice and a please-go-away-now voice. I'm going to have to work on that, I suppose. Nobody wants a doctor who informs them that their child is in perfect health or dying from pneumonia in the same tone.

"I suppose. Still. Today, the temptation seems bigger than usual."

I shrug and go back to my chopping, not wanting to be rude by ignoring him, but desperately hoping he'll take this as a hint I'd rather keep working.

"Nothing special about today," I huff.

He looks at me incredulously. "_Nothing special? _Wh- it's _reaping day_. There's nothing 'special' about the possibility of going to your death?"

"Not really. Aren't we always about to go to our deaths here, anyway? Get crushed by a tree, starve, beaten to death. The Hunger Games are just more spectacular, that's all."

He chuffs in disbelieving laughter. "I guess so. But… you don't _really _go through every day thinking that way, do you? I'd go mad!"

"Maybe you _are _mad," I challenge, then concede, "But no. I don't expect that I'm going to starve, get beaten to death, and then have my sad remains crushed by a tree every day. I prefer to choose one or another."

Symon shakes his head. "And people say you have no sense of humor."

I sigh. I've been reminded more than enough times this morning of how aloof I can seem, but lashing out at Symon would be counter-productive. No need to alienate one of the few people who seems to like me through the layer of ice. Even if he does sometimes make me think it might be a dangerous temptation to have me working around axes.

"How many Peacekeepers does it take to screw in a light bulb?" I ask with resignation.

"What?" Symon asks, mystified.

"A joke. It's a joke," I gripe sourly.

"Oh. Really? Okay, well, I don't know. How many Peacekeepers does it take?" He asks.

"None. The order it to screw itself in and when it doesn't, they shoot it," I say. It's less than a brilliant joke, but my repertoire is severely limited.

Symon snorts anyway, but I suspect it has more to do with the novelty of Caprice Upton telling a joke than my brilliant comic delivery. "That's grim, Caprice. I needed that shot of darkness today of all days," Symon says sarcastically.

I shrug as much as one can while chopping wood. "You said I didn't tell jokes. That was a joke. I think I proved my point."

"I guess so. I'll alert the presses," Symon teases.

"I hardly doubt the Capitol tabloids will think much of it," I reply. Ever since the borders were closed after the rebellion stopped and contact between Districts was forbidden, the cross-District newspapers spluttered to a halt. No point in reading about what's happening in your own District; if it's worth knowing, you probably heard about it yesterday. Now only the Capitol has any sort of "presses" to alert.

Symon's chuckling dries up and he watches me in silence. "If you had a little more patience, people wouldn't be so afraid of you," he says.

That interrupts the rhythm of my chopping. "Afraid of me? Who on earth would be afraid of _me?_" I splutter indignantly.

"Everyone under twenty years old," Symon replies without missing a beat. "Well, not me, but I'm used to it. At least you don't call me Snagglemouth…" He trails off for a moment, lost in brooding thoughts of teasing, and then seems to remember we were having a conversation. "But the point it, everybody else gets one terse answer from you and assumes you're angry at them for distracting you. You do seem the type."

"'Seem the'- what are you talking about?" I exclaim.

"If you're not answering questions in class, you're reading or chopping wood. That's it, Caprice. As far as everybody in school knows, you come in those three modes and hate anyone who tries to break you out of them. I've seen people try to talk to you before, Caprice. You give them yes or no answers and never smile. You scare them off."

I've totally stopped chopping wood now, standing still in disbelief. "What- when have I ever… I didn't mean to do that!" I stutter, eyes wide. "I was probably just… distracted or- or nervous. I didn't mean to seem…" I trail off, horrified. They find me _frightening_? How could they think that? I want to be a doctor, to help people. But I guess I never told them that, did I?

Symon stands in silence, letting me reel for a moment. I thank him for that with a loose, stunned corner of my mind. I fight down the urge to become sick all over the felled tree I'm cutting down into smaller pieces for transport. It would probably decrease the value of the wood.

I made myself lonely all this time? How could I have missed that? How could I have gone all this time driving people away? Part of me struggles against the idea, insisting I was as friendly as I possibly could be, that it's not my fault I'm so shy. Everyone else just gave up too easily. But at the same time, the spinning in my head can only be described as guilt.

I sit down on the ground, although it might be a bit generous to describe my somewhat calculated collapse as sitting. Symon lowers himself to the ground with a bit more grace. "Sorry, Caprice, but you needed to be told. I was hoping I wouldn't have to be the one to explain to you, but…"

I shake my head somewhat numbly. "No. No, it's alright. Thank you, I think."

We sit in silence for a minute or so. I'm distracted, lost in thought, but Symon seems uncomfortable and clears his throat in prelude to another conversation. "It's not too late, you know. You're smart. You're dedicated. People would like you, if you let them. You should start."

He puts a hand on my shoulder, probably meant as comfort. It makes me a little uncomfortable, since I don't _really _know Symon all that well, but I force myself not to squirm at all. That's the sort of thing he means, I think. To me, shrugging off his hand is no big deal, but to someone else it might mean "go away, I don't like you."

Okay. Well, I guess here's as good a place as any to start. I awkwardly pat his hand, hoping that will demonstrate my gratitude to him for being willing to persevere in seeking my company, even when I was unwittingly estranging myself from everyone. Symon doesn't really react to my touch, so I suppose casual touching is fairly normal to him. To everyone else, too, I would guess. I'm so out of touch, it's disgusting.

Symon stands and dust the dirt and pine needles from the seat of his work pants. "Well. Are you... going to be alright?" he asks, looking a little lost for anything else to say.

I nod. "Yes. Yes, I'll be fine."

"Okay. Well, I'll see you at the reaping," he says, and drifts off. He looks a little bit lost now, and I wonder if he's forgotten he came here to rake in a couple of pre-reaping work hours. It wouldn't surprise me. Symon's a caring person, and our confrontation was emotionally intense. I imagine he'll be off for a while now. Hopefully not if the worst occurs and he's taken. He'd need any advantage he could get, and being upset already when he was reaped would certainly not be an advantage.

I stand once the silence wraps itself around me. I massage the handle of my axe absently, making resolutions in my head. Tomorrow, I won't frown at anyone. Tomorrow, I'll reply beyond a nod when people say good morning. Tomorrow, I'll reconcile my shyness and innate need for friendship.

Which makes it a bigger blow to know I won't have tomorrow in my home.

"Caprice Upton." That's all it takes to uproot my plans for change. The timing is almost funny. In fact, I would be tempted to laugh if I weren't fighting down my protests. I wonder if Symon is at all struck by the coincidence. I bet he isn't; he'll be too busy panicking. But he probably needn't worry so much. I'm Caprice Upton, after all. The mean one. The strange one. The scary one.

I wonder for the first time if there's any benefit in being frightening. This morning I was more than distracted enough by finding out that I'd been digging myself deeper into a hole of loneliness for years to consider the possible benefits. Now, maybe it will be a good thing to be distant and dangerous.

Or perhaps it will be the worst possible way to spend my days: alone because no one will trust me enough to risk allying me in the days before I die, or because my District will be so revolted by my murders they won't look me in the eye. Perhaps I am totally stuck.

Frustrated tears begin to stir in the corners of my eyes as I walk toward our "escort", a strange man with blue streaks in his hair. I just can't make up my mind, can I? I'm a greedy girl, wanting friendship and my old comfortable distance at the same time. I'm a walking contradiction, the introvert who's just dying to spend her days surrounded by people. Then again, in my limited experience, most people _are _contradictions. It's people who aren't, who have no depth or doubt, that you need to watch out for. Those are the people who can only think one way, and can't ever change.

I shake my escort's hand when it's offered. I turn obligingly to the crowd when instructed. I do everything that I can do absolutely without thinking or deciding, because my mind's a horrible muddle right now, and I don't trust myself to do either.

"Lovely, lovely. Just lovely! Now shall we draw the name of our young man?" The escort crows. Unlike most of the people I saw who had been sent to work with tributes, he didn't look sweet and vapid. There's a hungry glint to his eye, and he looks like he relishes the punishment he's about to dole out on someone who probably doesn't deserve it.

"Our District Seven male tribute for the third Hunger Games is...Kieran Lacerow!" he exclaims, brandishing a slip of paper like a sword.

I don't really recognize Kieran. There's a good chance I haven't seen him around enough to know him on sight. District 7 is a sprawling, massive District. It's almost nomadic, being expanded to include new areas to forest and to close off the clear-cut sections. Twice in our history, the entire District has been packed up and moved to a new region. To get the different types of wood in Panem, sometimes groups of hundreds of workers will be taken on month-long trips to different forest, with explosives in a choking collar around their neck should they attempt to escape. But those trips are rare, since wood is mostly used now for paper and District homes, neither of which requires much of anything special.

Anyway, my home's more than big enough that I can say I've probably never spoken to Kieran. I can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing, which is a feeling I'm getting to be more and more familiar with.

We shake hands, both locked in our own private misery, when we're ordered. Other than that, we don't acknowledge each other. Actually, Kieran acts almost more shy than I am, which is fairly strange. He avoids everyone's eyes and doesn't look up from his shoes when he doesn't absolutely have to.

I'm shut in a small, functional room. After a moment my mother comes in, nodding polite thanks to the Peacekeeper holding the door. We stare at each other for a long time, trying to think of what to say. The saddest thing is, nothing comes to mind. After seventeen years of being little more than roommates, I have nothing to say to my own mother.

Eventually she clears her throat. "What would you like me to do with your things? If you don't come back, I mean."

I'm not upset by the bluntness of her questions. My mother is practical. Not quite practical enough to cut my father loose, but practical enough to accept that I might die soon. I'm not insulted by her lack of affection. There's something strangely comforting in the fact that my reaping hasn't changed anything in her manner. I think it plants the hope that, if the world can go on in the same way, maybe there's hope for me after all.

"Sell them, I guess," I say. "But… give something to Symon Ybarra. As a thank you. I don't really care what."

My mother nods, not too surprised by my seemingly odd request. "Alright. Do you want me to do anything else?"

"No. No, that's it," I reply.

"Alright," she replies. We remain in silence for a moment, not quite looking at each other. After a moment my mother sits down next to me on the hard, plain couch.

"Caprice, I'm sorry this happened to you. It never should have. I anyone in the world deserves this…well, it's certainly not you. You deserve to be safe and healthy. You deserve the chance to go after your dream. You deserve to live the life you've scraped together for yourself. Maybe it's silly to be saying this, but never wonder if this is somehow…your fault," she says, taking my hand gently.

I nod. I don't think it's going to be a problem, but I appreciate her words anyway.

My mother stands and clears her throat. "I hope you come back, Caprice. Don't be afraid to try."

Then she's gone, and I'm as alone as I've always been.

I put my face in my hands and shrink into myself a bit. I assume Symon will come to speak with me, and then all my visitors will be gone. That will be the end of it. I'll be shipped away from my District, and no one but Symon and my parents will ever miss me.

The door creaks open and Symon pokes his head in. I force myself to smile through my gray cloud and he steps in quickly. Before I have the chance to thank him for coming he says, "I thought you might want a few friends today."

I don't have time to ask him what he means four more people filter in. I'm stunned. I know some of them from school, but others I don't recognize at all. I can't imagine how Symon, nearly as much of an outsider as me, managed to collect these people here for me, but I don't want to question a miracle. I thank him when he leaves, but the stream of unexpected visitors doesn't stop. Five more roomfuls of people follow him, and I'm crying before the third one, stunned by their very presence.

It's pretty clear Symon somehow put this together, and they're not all drawn here by their own love for me, but it gives me hope. Maybe I will be missed just a little, after all.

Eventually the people stop. I marvel in silence at the impossible gift I was given for a few minutes until I'm escorted out to the train. I rub the happy tears off my cheeks and grin hugely. Because the unimaginable happened today. All those people…a week ago no one would have believed they'd be there. An _hour _ago I would have snorted at the possibility, but there they were. And if the impossible can happen just like that, who's to say Caprice Upton can't win the Hunger Games?


	14. Reluctance

**A/N**- Now for some notes on reapings.

First off, never again. Maybe District-by-District, maybe, but never individual.

Second, I have some good news. My second story, A Family Affair, is coming to a close, and I have decided to wait to start another project until the reapings are done, so hopefully this will update more quickly.

This character is brought to you by ForeverYoursEmma.

* * *

It's up to me to get myself up on reaping morning. Keegan spent the night with one friend or the other, and my parents are sleeping far more soundly than I am. They've probably been out all night, as usual, and I'll probably have to end up pulling _them _out of bed fifteen minutes from the time we need to be in the square.

I roll over in bed, squeezing my eyes shut tightly and trying to deny that I'm awake. It's not often I get to sleep in, and I'm reluctant to give up the luxury of inactivity just yet. I probably ought to check what time it is, but we only have one clock, and it's in the kitchen. I don't think it's late enough that I need to be worried about being on time to the reaping, so I give my pillow a punch to get it back in shape and try to get a few more minutes of sleep.

It doesn't work, and eventually I claim defeat and totter groggily of the edge of my bed. I stand observing my familiar room in tired distaste for a moment. It's small but neat, old but in good condition, plain but comfortable, and a thousand other ways of nicely putting the fact that it's the room of any just-scraping-by District family. I sigh in a fresh wave of the same stale old disappointment and give myself a good stretch before going to get water for my bath. Our house has an old-fashioned tub in it, but no running water at the moment, so I'm going to have to use cold well water.

I don't mind cold baths, really. Mix in a teapot or so of boiled water and it's more refreshing than uncomfortable. Sure, I'd rather take a warm one, but I'll get by.

By the time I've put a pot of water on the stove to boil, my mind has cleared away the last bit of fuzziness left over from sleep. Which isn't a good thing today. Now that I'm awake the nerves from the impending reaping are eating away at my chest and setting my hands twitching, like they always do when I get nervous. I grit my teeth and try to focus on something else, but it doesn't work. Frankly, I think everybody who claims they don't feel nervous before a reaping is kidding themselves. Either that or they're stupid, because you'd have to be not to worry that the axe might come down on your neck.

I've never understood the attitude some people adopt, the bravado-lined "you could die any moment, why worry about it now?" Why now? Because now you can prevent it. You can't prevent it if you don't see it coming. And I know people who've tried. When the first Hunger Games were announced years ago, some people tried protesting. Other people ran away. I think some of them even made it to…somewhere, because not everyone who disappeared before the very first reaping was brought back in shackles.

So I'm not ashamed at all to say I'm terrified of being taken. Maybe it's not brave or manly or whatever label people try to slap onto it, but it's human and it's realistic. I don't see a problem with that.

In the meantime, however, my hands are shaking so badly that half the water in my buckets will have been spilled by the time I get back home.

My nerves don't get any better as I continue along the short path from the well to our house. It's a little embarrassing not to be able to afford water, although I have the hunch we really can. Our water was shut down due to…some convoluted, vague reason the Peacekeepers fed us about not paying properly, but I have no illusions that that's the real reason. My parents are thieves, after all. Only the fact that the mayor is hopelessly in love with my mother has kept them from being arrested these past few years. Nowadays the Peacekeepers don't need to give you a fair trial or even have solid evidence before they throw you in jail or worse. They know my parents commit the crimes they do, but my mother and father are good thieves. They haven't left behind anything incriminating yet, and until they do Mayor Hapskull won't let his dear Ruthana be taken to jail. Which is convenient for my parents, but also very uncomfortable for me. It's always awkward when your married mother flirts furiously with the married mayor while both their spouses stand four feet away, which happens pretty much every time my parents get arrested. I'm inevitably pulled out of school or home or wherever by Peacekeepers who hope my parents will finally be put away and want me there to see them taught a lesson.

Keegan gets the same treatment, but seeing our parents brought to justice would probably be a lot less upsetting to her. It's their own fault she feels that way though, and they're just as ambivalent towards her. The Peacekeepers are wasting their time trying to scare her into submission. But they're probably wasting their time trying to put my parents away with anything short of photographic proof, anyway. It's pretty pathetic, actually, how easily mom gets them off.

"Oh, Eoin, you don't believe _I _would do something so horrible as _stealing_, do you?" she'll croon, her soft brown eyes wide. It helps that my mother is perhaps the most lovely woman in the District.

"Well, Ruthana, they say-" he stutters, uncomfortably rubbing his palm against the leg of his pants. My father and Mrs. Hapskull will sulk silently in the background, neither pleased with the setup. He can't do anything because he needs her to keep him from being sent to a work camp or something else horrid, but at least he has the comfort of knowing his spouse isn't sincere. The mayor's poor wife has to sit and watch and lecture him later. I don't know why she puts up with it. I suppose it's because she loves him.

"So you trust them more than you trust _me?_" my mother will say, voice quiet and wounded. Her doe's eyes will well with tears at this point. She's a master of crocodile tears.

"N- no, of course not. No, of course you didn't do it. Un-cuff them, please," he'll agree without hesitation, stumbling over himself to please his dear Ruthana. Then my parents get off scot-free and Keegan and I go back to whatever we were doing.

Alright, so that conversation's a _little bit _exaggerated, but not much.

Once I've lugged several buckets of frigid water to the tub I plunge in. The cold water is a good shock, and it clears my mind for a moment from every thought but cold. I'm regretful when thoughts about the Hunger Games and the family "business" sneak back in.

It's always been the unspoken expectation that I'll eventually become a house robber too, but the idea makes me shrink. I don't have the skills for stealth and lies that my parents do, and I'm not connected like my mother is. If thieves as good as them can't do it without the mayor wrapped around their finger, I certainly can't. Not that I really want to. I don't want to be outcast by everyone, hated all the more because they _know _I'm stealing from them and just can't prove it. I'm too eager to please for that. Not that I did such a great job pleasing everyone.

I frown, scrubbing a rough bar of soap over my arms. No, I'm not the one people love; that's Keegan. That's always been Keegan. It was a lovely day when I realized _that_. It took me a long time figure out that people just barely tolerated me, and by then I couldn't help but be the person every found annoying. As much as I hate it, it's probably for the best. If I ever made a real friend I couldn't be honest with them, anyway. My family has too many secrets, all of which my parents have decided to make me privy to. Keegan doesn't have that problem. They'd never trust her with the sort of things they tell me. Even if they did, she'd probably rat them out, anyway. I love my parents, but I envy Keegan for not being tied to the illegal things they do.

I envy Keegan in a lot of ways, actually. She's got friends. She lives without secrets. She isn't afraid to stand up to our parents.

I wonder if Keegan envies me at all. I bet it can't have been easy growing up estranged from your parents. I don't think they ever quite loved Keegan the way they do me. They always expected her to do the chores and whatnot, and made her get a job assisting a seamstress when she was eleven. I've never had to do that sort of thing. Which was probably part of my problem. It raised me to feel entitled.

I dunk myself again to wash off the soap and climb out of the tub, toweling myself dry quickly. I realize I forgot to grab my reaping clothes from my bedroom and wrap the towel around my waist. I poke my head at the door. No one's stirring yet, so I scuttle back to my room and close the door. Another reason I'm glad Keegan's spending the night with her friends; sharing a room with your teenage sister makes changing awkward for everyone.

I take a few minutes to pick through my clothes and decide on what to wear. My parents might not be able to stop the District from turning off our hot water, but they haven't let me go wanting for clothes that are in good condition.

I finish dressing and make a half-hearted attempt to brush my hair. It never lies flat, so I don't know why I even bother. Well, I do. I'm still hoping that one day it'll decide to behave and I won't have to go out looking like an angry cat took a ride on my head.

I hear some clunking around in the kitchen and assume my father's up. He's usually first out of bed, as Mom steals the blankets in her sleep and he ends up too cold to sleep in. I slip on my shoes and go back into the kitchen. My father is in fact the one up, and he's even dressed already. At first I'm pleasantly surprised, but then my stomach sinks a little. The only reason he'd be up so early would be to go to the black market and get rid of whatever it is my parents stole last night. And that means he'll want me to come with him as part of my "training".

"Ah, you're up. You can come with my to Bender's, then," my father says. His voice is still a little slurred from sleeping, but I can hear the pride in his voice, which makes me squirm a little.

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, okay. Can we eat first?" I ask.

"No, actually. Your mother wanted to make a special breakfast, but we're low on flour. We're going to go shopping," he informs me.

"Oh," I say, trying to look enthusiastic. I guess I'm probably a fairly good actor, because my attempts to put off visits to the black market have never tipped my parents off to my reluctance. Or maybe they're just blinded by pride.

My father goes and hitches our horse to our wagon. No one has cars in District 7, because the roads are in a sorry state and there's no steady supply of replacement parts. You have to order them from the Capitol at astronomical prices. My parents also favor wagons due to the fact that they allow for a lot of space in their false bottoms, and my parents use it for shipping their stolen goods.

Once he's got the wagon out front, I climb into the passenger side of the bench in the front. Usually Keegan and I have to sit in the wagon itself, maybe dangling our feet off the back if it's loaded up with whatever our parents need to transport. Today, I get to sit up front with my father since Mom's not coming. As reluctant as I am to go to Bender's, I enjoy the wagon ride. I love my dad in spite of his…profession, and the conversation we have on the way is one of the rare ones that wouldn't get him arrested if someone were to overhear us.

When Bender's comes into view, the happy mood evaporates. The place looks just about how you'd expect a black market to look. All of them (and District 7 has three) do. But unlike Old Way and the Shine, Bender's looks _mean_. It's by far the biggest of the illegal marketplaces, and in a strange way the most professional. It's not clean, but it seems like that's mostly because the sort of people who sell there _like it _dirty. It's named for Revven Bender, who was known for being a cold-calculating underground merchant, and the people there live up to his legacy. It's the sort of place where brawls never break out, but someone might get their throat neatly slit for trying to shoplift from a vender. Even people like my parents, who are pretty amiable for criminals, become hard and compassionless. I can't do that, and I'll never be able to. I'm not made of stern enough stuff for Bender's, so I hang back and let my father talk.

"Right. You get the box of jewelry," my father says icily, snapping immediately into career-criminal mode. I miserably do as I'm told while he ties up his horse. I grab the second container in the wagon, a bag of something heavy that clinks in reprimand as I pick it up.

"Let's go," my father tells me. I scurry along behind him, trying not to look at the men loafing around the front doors. I know that they're really guards, armed to the teeth and ready to take down Peacekeepers that come barging in to make arrests. They're very good at their job, because even the Capitol hasn't been able to pin them down as murderers with enough certainty to merit an arrest. Of course, I suppose it's possible they haven't actually killed anyone, but I'm not that optimistic.

Bender's is dimly lit. Probably so that it's harder to make out the faces of the people you're bargaining with, to protect the anonymity of those who want to conceal it. Plus, paying lighting for an abandoned mill station would look pretty suspicious for whoever owns the place. Then again, it's hard to believe the police don't already know. Maybe the venders have pooled together to bribe someone somewhere along the administrative ladder to look the other way.

The first thing my father does is buy several different types of meat from one of the illegal hunters. He's a wiry, malnourished man who doesn't look all that much older than me. He's missing an eye, and I wonder if one of his quarries was what took it.

My father adjusts the bag of clanking stuff on his shoulder and looks the vender up and down with a seething fierceness that looks wrong on his face. "I'll handle this. You go and get ten yards of red wool."

"What?" I exclaim.

"Red wool. Wool…that's red," he explains impatiently. I must be weakening him in front of the man with the meat right before he goes in for some ritual bargaining, but I don't care.

"But…_alone_?"

"Yes, alone. You're old enough now; you can handle it just fine," he snaps at me, trying to keep up his tough-guy act to better bully the hunter into selling him the meat cheap.

"But…" I stammer helplessly. Despite my father's (unfounded) belief in my haggling abilities, the idea of going off into Bender's and shopping on my own is terrifying. I know my fear shows on my face, because the young man with the meat snorts derisively.

"But nothing! Go!" My father snaps, and I dart away in misery.

Bender's seems to stretch as I scuttle along the tight, crowded lanes. I vow that, in the unlikely event that I do follow in my parents' footsteps, I will _never _patronize Bender's. Old Way is much nicer. Quieter, more amiable, and full of people who are mostly honest and just can't make a living in the main markets. Here I have the uncomfortable feeling that everyone can _smell _how helpless and nervous I am and is just hoping that this fresh new meat will stop by and get swindled in its inexperience.

I walk erratically, fighting between the urge to zip by each new pair of eyes before it can process my presence and the desire to avoid finding anyone selling cloth for as long as possible in hopes that my dad with finish and take over before I have to do any bargaining.

The second proves futile as I stumble on a little stall hanging with a tattered canopy that covers the nicer cloth from…something, although I don't know what, as we're indoors.

I hesitate, thinking I'll keep going without stopping and pretend I didn't see them, but then one of the stall owners motions me towards her. I groan inwardly. I highly doubt she'll forget me now. If my father asked and she said I'd just paled and run off, he'd be so disappointed….

Feeling sick to my stomach, I approach her.

She's a greasy-looking woman probably in her twenties, and a muscular man lurks a few feet behind her. I assume he's her husband, and highly armed in case one of the customers should turn out to be dangerous.

"What you looking for?" asks the woman. Her voice is clipped and rude. It's clear she wants to make a sale and get me out. Her ratty blond ponytail must be three feet long, and it falls over the table as she leans toward me. It's just as disgusting as the rest of her, and it makes me feel a little sick.

"Red. Red, um, wool," I stutter, cringing a little. Good opening Kieran. Way to intimidate her.

She looks me over once. "How much?"

"Uh, I've got some jewelry here to trade wi-"

"Not how much _are you offering_, how much _do you want_," she snaps. "How am I supposed to know what to charge you if I don't know what you're buying?"

"Oh. Right. Right, of course," I say, feeling myself start to blush. "T-" my voice cracks and I have to stop and clear my throat. "Ten yards."

She looks at me for a moment, eyes narrow, mouth hitched up at the corner. Eventually she snorts and begins rooting around for the wool. Her whole attitude indicates I might as well be something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe, for all I matter. Normally that sort of attitude would cost you customers, but at Bender's it's expected. Anything else makes people suspicious. Plus, she could probably bully me into buying the whole cart, ratty canopy and all, if she wanted too.

I do a little nervous dance where I stand. Her husband or whatever he is watches me wordlessly, probably making sure I don't steal anything. Eventually she comes up with a bundle of wool and drops it on the counter of the stall.

"Ten yards, red. What's your offer?" she asks briskly.

I almost open up the jewelry box in my eagerness to get out of here, but stop myself just in time. My father's number one rule of bargaining is never to let them know how much you have. Number two is never to buy anything unless you've inspected its quality for yourself.

"I don't buy it unless I'm able to see and touch it beforehand," I say, my voice a little strengthened by my being able to fall back on my father's familiar lessons rather than relying on my own nonexistent experience.

"And I'm not in the habit of handing the product to a customer who hasn't paid yet," she says flatly. We stare at each in stalemate for a moment, before I decide on a compromise.

"Alright, fine. But hold it up so I can expect it," I order, trying to sound as demanding as I can. With a sigh, she does, and I spend ten minutes inspecting every inch of those ten yards, as the other man steps up to assist the other occasional customers.

Satisfied, I take a step back. I'm actually feeling pretty good about myself. I didn't let her con me into buying subpar cloth, even though I was scared out of my wits. I reach out to take the (once again rolled up) bolt of cloth, but she yanks it away and makes a small coughing sound.

Oh, right. The haggling.

I turn the box so she and her husband can't see what's inside of it, and draw out a delicate bracelet of some sort of old, smudged metal. "Here," I say, holding it out. The woman looks at it for half a second and begins packing up the wool without even a dismissive noise in response to my apparently disgustingly puny offering.

"Wait!" I exclaim, seeing all my struggling disappearing before my eyes. "I'll throw…this in?" I falter, holding out a ring with a jewel in it I suspect is actually glass.

The woman in the stall smiles snakelike at me, and I shrivel in a little on myself. We're not done here, and this isn't going to be pretty.


	15. District 8

**A/N**: From now on, reapings will be in one chapter together.

* * *

**Miracle Girl**

You know things are bad when _I _of all people am already up and pacing at six o'clock in the morning.

"Chaja, darling," my mother coaxes, "just go back to sleep. The reaping isn't for-" "I know, I know. But I can't, I just _can't_," I exclaim as I cut her off, pulling anxiously on a black curl that won't stop falling in front of my eyes. My mother tries to smile comfortingly, but it just comes across as sad. I know she has to be just as scared as I am on a day like today. I don't have any kids, so I don't know what it's like to be afraid for them, but I bet it's got to be awful. And my mom doesn't have just one kid that could be taken away to their death this afternoon, but three.

As sorry as I feel for her, I'm not going to sit down and pretend not to worry. I mean, I could _die _in less than a week, on national television. I think I've got the right to pace. And if I don't, I sure should.

My mother doesn't say anything for a moment before sighing briskly and standing. She smoothes down her skirt and pushes in the dining chair she was sitting on before grabbing hold of my wrist.

"Darling, you're making me nervous. Could you just help me with breakfast instead?"

"Okay," I sigh. Cooking should help work off my extra terror-induced energy, and if Mom and I can find a compromise that won't drive either of us crazy then we should probably both take it. My mother wraps her arm around my shoulder and leads me to the stove.

"I was thinking oatmeal. I know it's not the most delicious thing in the world, but I got some fresh berries and brown sugar yesterday, so I think it could work."

"Oh, yeah! No, that sounds great, Mom. Let's-"

"You _honestly _letting _her_ help with the cooking again?" Protests a voice from the doorway. I spin around on my heel.

"Shut up, Fredrik!" I snap. My older brother saunters across the kitchen, still in his pajamas, to kiss my mother on the cheek and ruffle my hair.

"I seem to remember the wall catching on fire the last time she tried that," he says, not even blinking as I slap his hand away.

"I did _not!_ It was just the bread," I growl. Fredrik looks at me for a moment. I shouldn't be so upset by his teasing-I'm more than used to it-but today I'm on edge enough already and I don't need any ribbing from my big brother, as good-natured as it might be.

"Okay. I'm sorry, C," he says apologetically, "give me a hug?"

I glare for a second, but give in. Fredrik goes a little too far sometimes, but I know he doesn't mean to. He loves me. He loves all of us. He was always the sort of big brother who'd tease you to within an inch of your life, but would beat up anyone who so much as looked at you funny. He's since mellowed out a little as he grew up, but I know it's still killing him that he's unable to protect his little sisters from the reaping today.

Of course, he could use a bit of protecting too on the reaping day, but I expect he's doing his best to ignore that.

He sits down at the table, scratching at its worn wood with one finger. "Well, what is it I'm hoping she won't burn?"

"Oatmeal," my mother says, setting a pan on the stove in a businesslike way. "With berries and brown sugar."

"Mm. That's good. I like brown sugar," Fredrik offers, rubbing a bit of gunk out of the corner of his eye.

"Enough to help us cook?" My mother asks.

"Oh, I'll leave that to my sister's _ever _capable hands," he says. I shoot him another angry warning glance and he quickly throws his hands up in surrender.

"Well, if you won't be any use here, go get everyone else up," my mother commands. I don't remind her that only a minute and a half ago she was trying to get me back to bed. Maybe it's just a part of keeping her mind off things, to keep her from dwelling.

Fredrik grumbles a little, but obeys. Everybody obeys Mom. My father is away at work more often than not, managing production at a small textile mill, so Mother has since had to assume the role of disciplinarian. She has always been the one who gives the orders to her crew, who keeps the ship sailing. It was one of Dad's favorite jokes that he'd rather spend two weeks dealing with dull Capitol correspondents deciding on shipping routes than to spend two hours keeping house like his wife.

After ten minutes of shuffling footsteps thumping and tired groans, my family is gathered around the table as I'm stirring the oatmeal. There is a lot of nervous babbling. Fritz, who's only eight, is almost in tears. Lazar is trying to follow Fredrik's brave-big-brother role, blinking sagely and giving his younger brother solemn pats on the back. Rena looks sick to her stomach, like she's just figured out what today is, which wouldn't surprise me. I never forget; Rena never remembers.

My father comes in last. He doesn't say anything, he just circles the table and heads over to my mother, giving her a long kiss. Normally we'd be sure to make a joking fuss about it, shouting "ick" and "gross", but none of us are in the mood today.

Eventually the conversation dies to a low bubble of murmuring, and everyone just sort of sits around and doesn't look at each other. I can see my mother starting to get antsy again, so I clear my throat and ask, "Anyone have an interesting dream last night?" I know it's a bit of a risky question-if one of my little brothers had a nightmare about one of us getting reaped or something like that, we could spend the rest of breakfast listening to sobbing-but it's better than nothing.

"I had a horse," Fritz says glumly, "and I rode it and it jumped over the stupid fence."

"Now Fritz. The fence is there to protect us," my mother chides. Although her voice is gentle, I can tell his statement has made her a little nervous. It's a sad world we live in where even the act of insulting a government-funded fence can be dangerous.

"We didn't have the fence 'fore the war, and we were fine then," he grumbles.

"Tell me about the horsey, Fritz," Rena jumps in, trying to change the subject.

"It was red 'n' real pretty," he complies, "big and stuff,"

Fritz has liked horses ever since he saw them in last year's Games. Probably he'd have been scared of them once they started hurting people, but Mom made him leave the room before he could see his new favorite animal rip into people with its sharp teeth. Not that they actually killed anybody, just corralled them to make tributes fight.

"I bet that was a really fun dream," Rena coos, smoothing his sleep-ruffled hair.

"Yeah, but it's not real." He mumbles, kicking his feet sadly.

"Oatmeal's up!" I announce, pulling it off the stove. My mother has finished washing the berries, so she puts them on the table in a bowl. The little ceramic sugar bowl is next to it. Everyone exclaims their praises for our breakfast, trying to bury the thought that it could be the last meal one (or two, I suppose) of us kids has at home.

Turns out it's _my_ last meal.

I don't blame Fredrik or Rena for being safe, I honestly don't. I'm glad that they weren't reaped. But still, as I stare at the blank walls of my send-off room, I can't help but wonder why it was me. Why _not_ them? Did I do something to deserve it? It doesn't make any sense.

The door clicks open. Even though the room is small, they've let all of my large family in at once. I know that the peacekeepers often split up big groups, or people can request to share a few private minutes with the tributes, even if they _are _all family.

One of Fredrik's ex-girlfriends was the first female tribute, and he asked me to come with him to say goodbye to her. She had a lot of friends come to say goodbye, and they split us up into groups of five. Harmony's aunt actually asked to say goodbye to her alone, without Harmony's mother and father present. Her parents had been alcoholics and, although they'd loved her, they hadn't been fit guardians. Harmony's aunt had raised her as her own, and through the years they'd developed a special connection. I guess it might be a good way to go for some people, having time alone with the family they'd loved most, but the idea makes me feel sick to my stomach. I'm glad no one asked to say goodbye to me alone. It would feel wrong.

There's a moment of throbbing silence as my family enters, looks of confusion hanging on their faces. Papa's hands shake. Fritz is sobbing openly now. Rena looks dazed and sick. I avoid looking at Fredrik, Lazar, and Mom because I have the feeling that another familiar face in agony will truly send me over the edge, and I don't know what I'll do then, and I don't want to find out.

I hardly understand the next two minutes. Stunned silence quickly erupts into sobbing and desperate pleas begging me to somehow live, because there seems to have been some misconception, leading my family to convince themselves I might somehow _want _to die.

Suddenly it hits me how the seconds are ticking away. How I'll probably never see any of these people again, ever. How I've forgotten everything they've told me so far. That I've realized I don't know how many freckles are of Fritz' nose. That I'll never get to tease Fredrik about a girlfriend again. That Rena won't have me around to remind her to do everything anymore.

It makes me sick to my stomach, a feeling I'm getting more and more. Some people might see this sudden realization as a positive thing, like it's taught me how I should value every second of life - well, I think that's ridiculous. What good is valuing life if you've only got a week left? No, I'd have plenty of time to "value" if I hadn't been reaped, but now I've got no time at all.

Suddenly I'm shouting over the din of my family's disorganized pleading.

"Dad, it was me who broke the chair last year, not Lazar! I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry for all the times I lied to you and figured you wouldn't notice since you were always at work.

"Mom, I'm sorry I didn't help you out more at home. You worked so hard and I just sat around and let you. I'm so sorry.

"Fredrik, I'm sorry for all the times I shouted at you and all the times I got mad. I know you love me; I was just being stupid!

"Rena, all those times I called you stupid or forgetful…I didn't mean any of it, I was just- I was jealous. Because you were so perfect, half the time, and I barely even had any friends. And I'm sorry, I'm just sorry!

"Lazar, I'm sorry for all the times I ignored you or teased you at school. You're a great little brother and I don't hate you at all, even if I said I did and I'm sure I have. I love you. I love all of you!

"Fritz…"

The tide of my apologies dries up, Fritz's eyes are huge, looking at me in confusion, "Why do you sound so scared, Chaja?"

Rena squeezes her eyes shut, as if she's afraid to watch me explain my impending slaughter to our little brother, but I don't have a choice. I can't lie to him. He may only be eight years old, but he understands about death. How could he not? It's been shoved into his face by war, by poverty, and most of all by the Hunger Games. Plus, if I give him some sugary story, it's just going to be another lie. I don't want the last thing I ever say to my baby brother to be dishonest.

"Because there's a big chance I won't get to see you anymore, Fritz. Not you or Lazar or Papa or anybody else at home. Ever again."

He frowns. "But don't you want to?"

"Yes. I want to. But-"

"Then just do," he says. He looks sad, but gravely calm. I don't know if he, through the gauze of a little boy's outlook on life, really believes the Games work that way, or if he's just desperately hoping. Either way, it makes my heart hurt.

"I'll try, Fritzy. I will."

Soon they take my family away. The rest of my time is very much the same; I don't have very many friends, so they mostly trickle in individually. I can hardly hear them. All I can think of is my brother's plea of "just do". There's no reason to his last request, the world doesn't work that way and I know it. Even he knows it, I think, but it doesn't matter; sometimes logic is the last thing on your mind. Sometimes you've just got to hang onto the most desperate hope you possibly can, even if it's only the magic charm of two small words, like "just do".

I don't know if believing in yourself ever really got anyone anywhere. I don't know if it'll do any better for me, but I do know that I feel desperate enough to try it, anyway.

Maybe this is the real benefit of reapings, It's not being blasted to some nirvana state where you suddenly treasure every one of your few remaining breaths. It's being forced to stop quietly letting your miserable life wear on the same way, being too afraid of the consequences to risk changing it. It's getting rid of your old fear and inhibitions, making you willing to bet on things like wishes and miracles.

Or maybe that's stupid. Maybe there really is no upside to this whole mess, and I'm just lying to my own mind to make myself feel better. I don't know, but I hope not, because otherwise, I don't know how I'm supposed to get out of here. I'm a fifteen-year-old girl, just a kid. I'm not smart and sneaky like Eewyn Carre, who won last year and I'm not strong and steady like Wrianin Abro, who survived the first Games. If you just looked at me and looked at someone else, you probably wouldn't bet on me. But if I can stop feeling silly and consider a miracle for a moment…

Maybe it's stupid to bank on something bizarre and unexpected to happen. But who knows? Maybe I'll find out I'm a natural at the bow and arrow. Maybe some strong, dedicated ally will take a shine to me. Maybe carnivorous butterflies will eat all the other tributes. Miracles don't have to be spectacular and showy, they can disguise themselves as coincidences.

I feel resolve rising suddenly to float in the middle of my chest. I feel my hands twitch in anticipation. Suddenly I feel almost eager for the Games to come. Eager to see if I do get a miracle after all. I have the feeling I will. I'm sure it'll sound stupid, but this warmth is starting to sink into my skin, like I'm being drenched in warm oil. It drips over my head, down my back, off my fingertips. I wonder if it pools on the ground or just disappears when it leaves my body.

I wonder if I'm having some sort of premonition. I've never been one to buy into the idea of psychic powers, but this strange, giddy confidence makes me question myself. I'm not crazy, if anything, I've always been too down to earth, why else would I feel so…I'm not sure what to call it, unless I knew somehow that there was a reason?

I'm interrupted by the bang of the door. A uniformed Peacekeeper strides in, jerks his head towards the hall, and steps back to let me out. I start towards the door, still on some sort of cloud, and apparently take too long. He grabs me below the shoulder and hoists me out, being joined by another man on my other side.

They take me to the train, drag me is really more like it. They hold on too tightly to my arms and it hurts, but I find myself smiling anyway. Who cares if they get a little pinch when they've got miracles on their side?

* * *

**They Made Their Monster**

My name is Quillan Shaw. I am sixteen years old. I live in District 8. I have been reaped for the Hunger Games.

None of this is particularly important. Really, everything you need to know to understand me took place a long time ago, so that's where I'll start. As far back as I can remember, I realise that really, it was my mother's fault. She was the bad one. My father was no saint, but he hardly ever took a hand to me, it was Mother who made me who I am today.

Really, it's my mother's fault. She was the bad one. My father was no saint, but he hardly ever took a hand to me. It was Mother who made me who I am today.

There seems to be a widespread myth that all mothers love their children with their lives, and most children return the favor, even if its only very deep down. In a lot of cases this is true, but my mother and I are a glowing exception. My father always tells me that it didn't start out that way, that my mother didn't always view me as the symbol of everything that went wrong with her life. He says it started around the time that their marriage began to sour, which would have made me two or maybe three.

It was a slow death that their marriage had suffered. It started out as nothing much; talking less, shouting more- nothing every couple doesn't experience and overcome if they stay together for more than a few months. For a while, they even patched it up. Father says it was for me, mostly. Well, maybe that was what had done in my relationship with my mother. All that pain and anger was for me, eventually, I guess "for" became _"for"_, because my mother caused me nothing but that same sort of misery for years.

I can't say I miss her.

I tuck my dress shirt in, it's old, but that means it's been worn soft so I don't really mind how aged it is. I've slept in pretty late since it's rare to get a morning off, and I have to rush through getting dressed. I don't bother brushing my hair; I can just smooth it back with my hands later.

"Good morning, Dad!" I exclaim, bouncing into the kitchen. Our house only has one bedroom, which we share, but he's probably been up for an hour or two already. He doesn't sleep well. He hasn't for a long time. Since he can't really lay in, he's almost always the first one up and tends to makes breakfast, which is good because he's a great cook.

"Good morning, Quillan," he says, eying me sideways.

I wonder if maybe I should have brushed my hair after all, if it looks that funny. I can't think of anything else to say, so I just plop myself down in front of our fireplace and warm myself up. Usually we don't run the fire during the summer because of the price of firewood, but exceptions are made for today. Regardless of the high cost, I'm grateful for the warm hearth. It gets cold in the mornings in District 8, even during the summer months.

Eventually I roll onto my other side and watch my father as he cooks. He glances over his shoulder, and catching me staring, he twitches uncomfortably. I don't respond, and he returns to cooking. He takes a sideways peek over his shoulder every couple of minutes, but always turns back when he realizes I'm still watching.

I don't why my father is so afraid of me, I'd never hurt him. Why would I? He's been the one constant in my life. When my mother was angry or drunk she'd get violent, and he'd be the one pulling her off of me. She was a big woman, stronger than him too, but he always managed to give me enough time to get out of the house and go hide for a few hours. I love my father, but he doesn't seem to understand that.

"Alright, Breakfast," he announces eventually. We eat in silence. He seems nervous. I don't whether he's nervous about me or about the reaping. Either way, it's a very quiet meal.

"I'll be fine, you know," I say after a couple minutes of silence.

"Um, what?" He asks, choking a little on his toast.

"If I get chosen. I'll be fine. I can hold my own. I won't be afraid."

He shifts a little in his seat, as if uncomfortable. "I- I know that, I've never doubted it."

"You don't sound glad," I challenge.

He rubs the back of his head with his hand, riffling up his already-messy hair. "I…I am. Don't think I don't care about you, Quillan. I do. I love you very much, but even more than that, I…worry about you."

I cock my head silently, telling him to go on.

He blows a long breath, avoiding my eyes and fixing his gaze on a spot several inches to the right of my head. It looks a little silly, actually.

"For a long time, you haven't seemed quite right, Quillan. I don't know what it is, exactly. But…uh…ever since your mother was mur- killed, you've seemed wrong. It changed you, didn't it? Losing her?" He looks at me, finally, his eyes have a pathetic gleam of hope in them. He's desperate for me to tell him that he's right. He wants to believe that I'm just a very sad, lonely boy who misses his mother. But he's wrong. I hated my mother. It's why I killed her.

He waits, but I don't respond. He clears his throat and looks away again. I think he's guessed what happened the night she died. He just woke up and she was dead. Stabbed eight times in the chest. All three of us slept in that room, so he didn't expect that someone would have risked sneaking into our house and then our bedroom in the middle of the night just to kill her. Nothing had even went missing, other than a mere kitchen knife. The Peacekeepers officially classified my mother a "cold case" years ago, but my father has always felt he knew what really happened.

He's right, of course, but I won't tell him that. He'd do something well meaning and stupid, like turn me in to the Peacekeepers in hopes that they could take me somewhere to get "help" for me. He's just stupid and idealistic enough to believe that they'd actually do something _for_ me instead of just working me to death in some secret labor camp and continuing to charge him for expensive, non-existent Capitol therapy for the rest of his life.

Besides, I don't need help. I know not to go around digging knives into people, as much as I might like to. I got lucky that the Peacekeepers assigned to my mother's case really didn't care one bit about the death of some District drunk. However, if I had turned serial killer, I wouldn't be so lucky. They'd have to do something to stop a continued threat to their workforce, like a farmer shooting the fox that keeps sneaking onto his farm and eating the poultry.

I've since learned to control myself. At first I was flushed with the newfound feeling of power- I'd never had any control over my life, any security. Well, maybe when I was young, but I couldn't even remember those days. When I killed my mother, I suddenly found a heady feeling of being in charge, as if suddenly my whole life wasn't spent in fear of what my mother might do to me. It was a wonderful feeling. I wanted more of it, but luckily, I wasn't stupid enough to go around slaughtering people. I was careful. Sometimes I'd kidnap a cat and open it up, and that was enough.

For a while I didn't really understand how "awful" what I did was. I mean, I knew nobody else was going to approve, which was why I hid. But I didn't put it together that people would think of it as _evil_.

Maybe it is evil, to want to cause pain. I'm not sure that I care. I don't owe the world anything. No one stopped me from becoming this way. No one but my dad ever did anything for me, ever. If they had, maybe things wouldn't have gone wrong with me. They made their monster, and now they should accept the consequences.

Abruptly, I remember my father is still waiting for me to respond. His hope seems to have withered with my silence. I only blink at him. He coughs again, and it looks like he's near to crying.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the things she did. She didn't use to be…like that. When you were little, she loved you more than anything. I don't know what changed, what happened, but I'm so sorry."

"It- it's not _your _fault," I say, confused by his guilt. He was my protector when my mother tried to hurt me. He didn't turn me in to the police when he suspected me of her murder. He kept supporting me, on his own. Why should he feel sorry?

"Yes, it is. Well, not exactly, but…I should have done more. I should have stopped her. I should have found some way to- to help. I- you were my son, you've always been my son, and it was _my _job to make sure you-"

He chokes off miserably. I'm a little bit shocked at his sudden outburst. I don't think I've ever seen him cry before since my mother died. I don't know if we've ever had a conversation this…_big _before, either. It's like he's been holding everything off to himself for a long, long time and it's just now popping out of him.

"I'm sorry, Quillan. I wish things could have been better for you. I mean it."

"I believe you. Why wouldn't I believe you?" I ask.

"Don't you…blame me? For not stopping her?" He says, frowning, which only confuses me more. I mean, I know most people's minds don't really work like mine, but I would still think he'd be _glad _I didn't hate him for not protecting me.

"No. You did what you could. No one else did anything. Why would I blame you?" I reply.

"Well, because it still happened. And- because…I just wish you would." "What? _Why? _That doesn't make any sense!"

He shakes his head. "No. No, I know it doesn't. It's just…if you blamed me I could at least feel offended. I could be angry with you for…not appreciating that I did what I could. But when you sit there and forgive me and don't blame me…you're just a martyr, and I feel worse."

"Oh. Well…I suppose I understand that. A bit. I can…act angry at you, if you want?" I offer uncomfortably.

He chuckles a little, but it's sad. "No. No, that's alright. You don't have to do that, but thanks."

We sit for a while without saying anything. I bite down into the spongy, grainy bread that makes up our breakfast. I wonder if my father expects me to blame him for this, too. Does he think I resent him for not being able to afford a better life? Because if he does, that's not his fault, either. I almost tell him that, but I stop myself at the last second, the quiet, grave look on his face makes it pretty clear that it won't make him feel better. He's too sad that I've been "ruined". It won't make him feel any better to know that I'm almost okay now- well, not okay. I'm not happy. I'm not happy, but I _am_ surviving. Sometimes, that's the best you can hope for in Panem. And for all the worrying he's apparently done on the subject, I can honestly say that now is the first time I've really resented my father.

If he thinks life has dealt me a bad hand, that I have so much to be resentful for, how can he judge me for the way I am? After being taught violence by my own mother, how can he blame me for mine? Especially after all I've done to control it? If I cut myself, if I cut animals, what right does he have to look at a knife in my hand and brand me a monster?

None.

He has none.

For a split second, I think about how satisfying it would be to make his unfounded fears a reality. I could pick up a fork from the table and stab it into his chest, _then _he'd have a reason to look at me and be afraid, just like he has done for all these years. It'd be satisfying, too. His eyes would widen for a moment in shock, and then shock would turn to fear and pain. He'd bleed. Maybe he'd scream, or maybe his mouth would just work open and closed like a fish's.

. But I don't whether or not he'd scream, because I'm not going to stab him. I'm not going to punish him for my mother's cruelty. Like I said, the inclination to hurt him only dances at the edge of my mind for a second, it hardly stays long enough to qualify as a real thought, much less a desire or a plan.

I come back to earth with a snap, immediately ashamed of myself, but even though I couldn't hurt my father, it's too late to convince him that. I see that my violent musing must have flashed onto my face and twisted it, because now all wistfulness is gone from his face. He just looks terrified.

"Dad, I-" I begin.

"I'm not hungry," he interrupts. He practically jumps headfirst out of his chair, tripping as his toe catches on the worn rug. He scuttles out the front door, presumably to go cower somewhere he figures I can't find him if I decide to suddenly lose my mind.

Well, lose it _worse_, I suppose.

I stare after him for a moment before putting my slice of toast down slowly. I can honestly say I'm not hungry either, not anymore. I slowly push the chair away from the table before slouching over, folding my arms on my placemat and dropping my head down on top of them.

I guess I've been a bit generous to consider my father a protector. Haven't I? Maybe not. He was, I guess; he used to be. Now he seems too afraid of me to be in the same room with me. His job as protector is over; you can't protect something that you feel the need to run away from.

Good thing I don't really need protecting any more. Good thing I've got knives hidden away in a hole in the bottom of my mattress. Good thing I'd really, really love an excuse to slash someone open. They don't execute you for self-defense, so if anyone ever tried anything, I'd be ready.

I guess I still have to thank my father. I have to thank him for getting me to this point; my mother probably would have just beaten my brain out years ago without him to step in and defend me. But, while I thank him, I'm not about to say I owe him anything. Will I hurt him? No, never. Will I worry that he's afraid of me or disappointed in me or whatever? No.

I stand slowly. I'm suddenly desperate for something normal to do. I'm already dressed. I fix my hair with my hands, which takes all of about four seconds. Now what? My...teeth. I can take care of my teeth.

I fish my toothbrush out of a drawer. It's old and ratty and toothpaste is too expensive for a single-income family, but I don't care. I want to hide behind something boring and mindless and everyday because all of a sudden, for the first time, I'm scaring _myself_.

For all this time, I've got along even though there was something wrong with me. Smothering it did the trick, more or less. I've managed to spend so long under the radar. It has been a pretty near balance, but it was still balance. For years and years it hasn't changed and now, all of a sudden, it's changed hugely. If I can't find it in me to worry about my father anymore, where does that leave me? Do I have any link to the normal world left?

Suddenly the idea of making a clean break with everything "normal" makes my heart stumble a little in its usual rhythm and my fingers curl. Suddenly, I don't want anything to change. Maybe I even wish I could go back to being the way I was before my mother hurt me and I returned the favor. I want to go back because now, at the edge of giving in fully to what might be called insanity, I'm suddenly scared, scared of me.

I wonder if this is what my father feels like, living with me every day. I feel like I don't know what's going on in my own mind. I don't know what I'll do if I step over this threshold. I don't like it. It's only my self-control that's kept me from being picked up and executed or something like that all this time. If I change even more, where will that leave me? Will I go on a murderous rampage through the middle of the district? Get shot and killed? I don't have any idea.

I pull my toothbrush away from my mouth. It's not helping in the least to settle my mind. In fact, I feel like I'm about to throw up.

I hold my head in my hands, rocking back and forth a little on the balls of my feet. How can I change my mind so many times in one morning? First I plan on living the same life forever, then I feel like I'm growing more powerful and independent and all of a sudden I just want things to go back to normal. For years and years nothing has changed, and now all of a sudden…but I guess that's not really right, is it? It can't be. If what I had all these years was really balance, this wouldn't have happened. No, I haven't had balance in a long time. Just good luck.

But have I really had good luck, either? My mother abused me, I ended up with a crime punishable by death on my hands, and now I've been reaped.

No. I haven't had luck. I haven't had balance. I don't have any idea how I made it this far, and I don't know where I'm going.

But I guess I'm going to find out.


End file.
